I once knew a writer who frowned at the page,
Who grumbled, groaned, and let loose all her rage.
She sighed at the keyboard and moaned at the screen,
Wishing her stories could be better with each scene.
She wanted the glory, the praise, and the cheer,
But she didn’t find joy when deadlines drew near.
She wanted the pleasure, but not all that pain—
All the thinking and typing and editing strain.
One day a whisper came softly to her ear:
“If you want joy, you can have it right here.”
She blinked and she paused, then let out a huff.
“Can choosing to like writing really be enough?”
She gave it a try with a paragraph or two,
And smiled when she saw the message was true.
She chuckled at rhymes and the puns that she made,
And found there was joy in the mess she had laid.
She danced with her drafts and played with her plot.
She laughed when her clever ideas went for naught.
Each edit, each tweak, each fix to the line,
Was suddenly fun—like a puzzle design.
The secret, she learned, was not in the task,
But in how you approach it, the questions you ask.
“Will I groan through my gift, or rejoice in my role?
Will I write with my heart or just meet a goal?”
Now she writes with delight, with purpose and grace,
Because every word will have a time and a place.
She still works hard—but now with a grin,
For joy in the journey is a choice from within.
So writer, take note when your passion feels dry,
Don’t give up your calling. Rejoice as you cry.
For when you delight in the work God has shown,
You’ll never again feel like you’re writing alone.
