The internet is pretty rad, honestly. I’m sitting here, waiting for my car to be serviced. It’s a gloomy day. I had a cup of coffee next to me, curled up in the comfy chair in the Toyota lounge. It was the perfect time to write. So I started to write. That’s a lie. I attempted to start to write, just as I did a few hours earlier when I woke up. Lately, my time to write has been ending in me swearing at my computer and texting anyone who will listen, telling them I’m quitting writing because screw writer’s block.
I bitch and moan about it, sitting here in my “stuck” place. Today, I decided to be a student of writing. If I were stuck on a patient’s case, I’d hop on the internet and do some research. So I did. I typed in, “How to overcome writer’s block.” Gosh, I love Google. It led me to an article that led me to a fantastic blog entitled “The Very Worst Missionary” by Jamie Wright. Twenty minutes of reading later and I have tear-stained cheeks, a reignited fire, and her book on the way, thanks to Amazon Prime.
If you have not read Jamie’s blog, do yourself a favor and visit it at https://theveryworstmissionary.com/blog/
I found myself completely taken by Jamie’s words, falling in love with the way she writes and the things she writes about. Any woman with tattoos, a fierce love for God, and a potty mouth that makes a sailor blush is a woman I want to learn more about. The truth behind her words spoke to me in the exact moment and headspace I was in as I sat in freaking Muncie, Indiana, waiting for my car to be done and cursing my own writing ability. She, too, a published writer and a successful blogger had a hard time saying the words, I am a writer.
Without knowing it, Jamie’s writing and words gave me permission to be pissed the hell off at not knowing what exactly I want to write about. She gave me permission to swear but still proudly don my cross tattoo. While I wish I didn’t need the extrinsic permission, I’m learning that’s part of life. I’m finding it doesn’t always come from the people closest to us, either.
A woman I had never known of until about 30 minutes before this gave me the permission I needed to sit and drop F-bombs as I try to write, right after I close my eyes and pray that God guides my words and uses them. Coworkers who were new to me and I to them gave me permission to be overly passionate about my job and the work I get to do every day. Over a glass of wine, a stranger at the time had given me permission to be okay and lighthearted towards my mom’s death when he made a joke about it (one that made me cackle, I should mention). The women on social media, posting half naked pictures with confidence in whatever shape they are give us permission to love the skin we’re in. The female athletes sporting more muscle than makeup give us permission to be both a badass and a hot ass.
I think the intrinsic permission is simpler but maybe the hardest to receive. I don’t know what you’re not giving yourself permission to do or be. What you permit for yourself today may be something you withhold from yourself tomorrow. Overall, I find myself needing to allow myself to be me. As the stereotypical perfectionist, I have a hard time being me because I feel as though me is never good enough. So maybe I rely a little more heavily on others to give me permission because I have a hard time giving it to myself.
Jamie’s writing inspired me. She gave me permission to just be today. It’s my continued hope that in between the lines of word vomit and swear words, there are bits of permission you may not be giving yourself. Permission to find God outside of the confines of church. Permission to proudly sport your cross tattoo on your wrist and lick the salt off of it before you toss back your tequila shot. Permission to grieve. Permission to be fucking messy.