Why would somebody do this on purpose when they could do something else?

Thoughts I have while writing

At Voltaire & Rousseau Bookshop in Glasgow contemplating the futility of writing books

There is a line in a song by Phoebe Bridgers that I often think about while I’m writing: “why would somebody do this on purpose when they could do something else?” Somehow, I’ve managed to patch together a livelihood largely through writing. My own writing: in the research I do in my fellowship at King’s College London, in the books I’ve published, in freelance articles I pitch. Other people’s writing: as an editor for Plough, and as an educator marking papers and supervising theses and dissertations. You would think that, given the fact I spend a good deal of my time writing or helping other people write that I would find it easy, energizing even. But most of the time, I find it difficult. For the past ten minutes, for instance, I have been trying to think of why it is difficult, or how to describe the difficulty of writing with a clever metaphor, absurd example, or relatable anecdote. I am coming up dry. See? Writing is difficult.

I am currently writing two books. Or rather, I am finishing one book so that I can immediately start (and complete) writing another. In the proposal I wrote for my fellowship at King’s College London, I aimed to write three journal articles and turn my PhD manuscript into a book. The three articles have been written (two are already published here and here). Now all that is left in that list is to finish the book— an 80,000-word book about how art can be used in spiritual practice to prepare people for death. The book is interested in three things, really: theologies of death, the ways that art can form the spiritual life, and the state of spiritual practice in a supposedly secular world. Getting back to work on this project, which I poured four years of my life into, has been something of a psychological obstacle course. But I’m in it now and trying to plough through as quickly as possible. And sometimes it is enjoyable: getting to add in things I wasn’t confident of when I was a student, finding a more authoritative authorial voice, spending hours (re)reading work on a topic I am compelled and passionate about.

And I am also working on another manuscript: a book about women in Christian history for Brazos Press. Several years ago (back when I was on Patreon) I hosted a book club reading texts written by women in the Christian tradition, or about them by someone with one degree of separation (e.g. a spouse, sibling, etc.). In part, my writing this book comes out of the experience of hosting that book club. What surprised me most as I read through these texts with several hundred people was that the question that seemed to be brought to the foreground was not the place of women in Christianity, but the very nature of what it is to be a Christian. The most potent example of this were the very strong resistances to the story of Felicity and Perpetua, young mothers who chose to be martyred rather than to renounce their faith. Many readers felt very strongly that it somehow violated “Christian values” to leave children motherless. I found this resistance to martyrdom intriguing since martyrdom was important in the early church. It’s interesting to think: what does it mean to be a Christian? How does my understanding of that question differ from Christians in the past? As I’ve worked on this book, I have increasingly felt this is the question I want to explore in this book, looking to the example of women in the Christian tradition, in their own words.

There are so many books in the world. And so many bad books. I think it would be strange, an act of hubris, if I didn’t ask myself this. The Qholeth, that ancient writer of wisdom, had it right when he wrote “Beware, my son… of making many books there is no end, and much study wearies the body” (Ecclesiastes 12:12). But here I am, adding my books to the endlessness of making them. Wearying the body as I do so. . I cannot help, from time to time, thinking why should I add anymore? Why do I think my book won’t be bad? Can what I write be worth the trees that give themselves for the page? Isn’t there an unavoidable self-importance about this whole endeavor? But on I plod. Returning each day to this task requires discipline, time, and energy, especially when writing one amongst many things vying for my attention. It is something I do, as Bridgers says, “on purpose.” Why do I write? This is something I have been thinking about lately. I have a few reasons, and all of them embarrass me. Let me write them down, and think them through.