I recently received updates from two authors on the same day. One breathes the exhausted fumes of disillusionment after a long career of solid sales. The other exudes the enthusiasm of unanticipated action as he publishes his first book. In them, I see bookends of the expectations of every aspirant, in writing and life.

Taking a Chance on Abundance

The new author—let’s call him Bob—presents a ticklish dilemma. Not because it is a delicate matter, but for the laughter I could hear in his voice. His issue is that the unexpected boom from his Kickstarter has led him to order an offset printing of his debut novel, something he has said he would never do. He articulates some angst about the risks involved, but we all know his mood. How grand to have such a problem! Optimism buoys above any conceivable obstacle. And we who are not yet so jaded feel glad for him. This is what we work for, and in his boon, we find hope.

The Weary Night of the Soul

Except I have just read the other email. This seasoned soldier of the pen, who I’ll call Dave, has published volumes of books in many series. He has labored assiduously for every word to tell the stories on his heart. And for his efforts, he has a mailing list in the thousands and sales in the tens of thousands. No matter how well Bob’s Kickstarter went, I doubt he sold anywhere near that amount. Dave’s numbers are unimaginable to me. So, I see him as a raving success.

Yet, his email rumbles with hollow despair that seems to echo off solitary walls. He laments the lack of engagement from his readers, the dearth of reviews, the pointed apathy, and silence drowning him. It could appear arrogant or entitled, but I sense, beyond anything else, his deep yearning for affirmation as an author. Because he has staked his worth on that validation. It is a bone-weary plea for something in the ether to give him meaning.

What is Enough?

It is tempting to scoff at Dave and tell ourselves that we’ll never be like him. But I think we all have the potential to this despair, when the “work beneath the work” fails us. This is a phrase I heard from Tim Keller. He explains it in this podcast episode, referencing a quote from Judith Shulevitz in a March 2, 2003 New York Times Magazine article in which she calls it the “eternal inner murmur of self-reproach.” It is the human propensity to seek self-value in our work. Everyone needs something, and overachievers have chosen success at work to make us feel right. Yet this tantalizer ever retreats out of reach, every moment of triumph sucking us along to try for another spark between flagellations. It never seems enough, so we keep trying harder. Until we are used up, burned to withering splinters, like Dave.

I remember a line from the movie, Cool Runnings, spoken by John Candy’s character, “A gold medal is a wonderful thing. But if you’re not enough without it, you’ll never be enough with it.” We can recognize the “gold medal” in our endeavors as the thing we forever chase, which never satisfies. It can manifest in different ways, but always stinks of selfish ambition. Like death, barrenness, drought, and the fire in Proverbs 30:16, it never says, “Enough.”

Giving It Away

Stories are gifts. Honest authors will admit that the best stories are given to us, ideas that pop into our head unbidden and take off. Sure, we work hard to shape and mold them. Yet even there, they only come together when we hit upon the right… magic? We are scribes who take down the inspiration before it flies off. And it is our privilege to give the stories away—not for free, since most of us can’t afford that. But rather by not needing the credit for its glory. Yet, it’s so hard. Why can’t we just be happy to let our stories loose in the world to make their impact, like children that have grown beyond being a reflection of us? I think this is where we are confronted with our neediness. Because we do want them only to shine for us. We want them to attest to our genius and worth, to fill that void in our lives that forever wants more.

Benediction

Our work, our writing, cannot bear up against this weight. Trying to force it to do so will destroy our work and us. For Bob, I hope he never loses the enthusiasm for his craft, not from what it can give him but from exercising it with gratitude and generosity. And for every Dave, I wish he finds rest. That he would see a glory outside of himself that does not fade, one that beckons contentment and purpose, with a love that is free and complete. Maybe if he does, he will never tire of writing that story, because there would never be silence again for the joy that rings in his soul.