Every so often, I’ll read aloud something I’ve written to my wife.
We’ll be lying in bed, trying to wind our brains down for the night, and I’ll grab my phone and begin reading.
But I don’t just read. No, I get really into it.
I’ll laugh uncontrollably through the funny parts. I’ll stop and explain my esoteric references (even though my wife never asked). I’ll enunciate the italicized words, inflect my voice when I reach a question, and emphasize every exclamation point.
From my wife’s perspective, I could be reading a cooking recipe ? she just loves seeing how excited and engrossed I become. She smiles and enjoys the show.
But that’s the thing…
I’m not reading a cooking recipe. I’m not reading a book from Jon Acuff, Jeff Goins, or Todd Henry. I’m not reading a satirical piece by The Onion.
I’m reading my own work. I’m laughing at and explaining and enunciating and inflecting my own words. I’m engrossed in my own creation.
It has nothing to do with vanity. It has nothing to do with thinking my writing is perfect (trust me ? I’m consistently finding things to tweak). It has nothing to do with thinking I’m the bee’s knees or the cat’s meow.
I just love what I do. I love what I create.
And you know what?
That’s how it should be.
Why write something you’re not passionate about? Why write something you can’t reread days, weeks, or months later and still enjoy? Why write something you don’t want to read aloud to your amused spouse at night?
You might disagree.
You might find the notion a tad crazy.
You might be thinking, “anyone that into their own work is cuckoo for cocoa puffs!”
That’s fine. Maybe it’s true and maybe I am.
But let me ask you a question:
Creative Commons Image via wilB (adapted).
