random dump

Unserious John Piper-related



Serious John Piper-related

a limerick
There once was a girl named Jennie.
She smelled like a drunk old henny.
She liked to stay in her room all day
And didn't come socialize any.

*bow*

a rant
I wish I wrote more.
There was a time in my life - it was only a year ago, but it feels like much longer - when I wrote nearly every day. Poems, short stories, a frequently-updated blog, a journal; creative writing at school, articles, book reviews. I was funnier and more serious, then, at the same time.
Then I got depressed. I never wrote; I hardly read. It felt like I had lost my voice, my personality, at times even a reason for living. From day to day I schluffed through life in a dull non-sense of apathy. My mind, which had always been sharp and astute, dissolved into a mass of inactive sadness.
I'm just getting out if it. My writing style is different now, I think; formerly influenced most by Jane Austen and J.R.R. Tolkien, I now more resemble a less skilled version of Ernest Hemingway and Mark Twain. More sarcastic, shorter sentences, almost sadistic on occasion. My poetic facet hasn't really come back, yet, though I hope it will.
But God is still there. He hasn't changed. He's graciously given me a fair amount of skill in all three arts for a reason, I know He has. Even if I wrote better a year ago, I've never really used my writing for His glory.
So I'll do it now. I will use my gifts to thank the One who gave them to me. I will not be a dullard, I will not be tragedic, I will not presume on my own borrowed skill.
And I will not write like this.