My passion.

My first love was a good story, any good story I could get my hands on. My mom says I was tested and had a 4th grade reading level at age five, so I can’t remember a time in my life when I couldn’t read. In fact, after I had read all of my books several times over it wasn’t unusual for me to find catalogues and begin reading every description of the products in them.

As I got a little older, and able to read more advanced material, if whatever I read didn’t seem realistic enough, I would color in the details and plug in the gaps until a whole back-story filled the pages. Shallow, two-dimensional characters gained histories and pasts that at times seemed more real to me than the real, live people around me. My depth oriented personality wasn’t contained to the written word either. My younger brother and I would play for hours every day with our stuffed animals, and each of them had a story too. They had names and flaws and backgrounds that made them into animated personalities. And personalities they were! Although I myself am admittedly anything but a dramatist, the characters I created in my head were always vibrantly expressive and emotional, sometimes even to a fault, like the humans they were modeled after. Soon my interest moved from stuffed animals to my friends. I’d create storylines and direct them in acting the plots out in front of our amused parents. They never seemed to want to go as deep as I did though, so that didn’t last much longer than a year before I went back to my more compliant stuffed animals. Oftentimes after reading a book I would lead my brother in acting out our own version of its story with those worn out, threadbare critters. Each animal still had its own personality, so the story had to be told with those factors in play of course.

The next stage of my life began when my parents paid for me to take a writing course when I was about eleven years old. I enjoyed it to the hilt. Most of the children around me didn’t seem that into it and barely completed their small books they were supposed to write, but I think I finished about five. My best friend and I created one together too, and as I looked over the finished product in its cute, cheap binding, I suddenly realized that I could do this!

A whole new world had opened up to me. The world of writing.
The written word began to fascinate me. I loved the way that black swirls on white paper could create a vivid, moving, breathing, feeling image inside one’s mind. I could create so much more with a simple pen and paper than I could with silly stuffed animals. I could create an entire world contained within the two covers of a notebook. A world where anything could happen, a world filled with adventure and beauty and excitement. A wonderful place to be.
For a while my best friend and I had been telling stories to each other about an imaginary land where we were all grown up and married and our pets could talk, but gradually I began to discover that I could write a tale ever so much better than I could audibly tell one. When I was thirteen I finished my first “real” book. It was about fifty pages long, and was a gift to my friend for her birthday. It was written in first-person, as if it was my friend’s diary in that imaginary land we had created. I entitled it, “The Diary of Morgana Monick.”
After that… I was hooked.

As I grew older and bloomed into a relationship with God and learned more about the troubles and struggles of the world, the childish aspects of my writing gradually began to fade into more serious aspects. I began to cope with my wild teenage emotions by writing, I began to cope with the terrible evils of the world around me by writing, I began to deal with my own spiritual turmoil by writing. My Father in Heaven would whisper to me as I sat on my bed and scribbled out my dreams, frustrations and desires. He began to let me see His light in the darkness, He began to explain that there’s no such thing as victory without struggle, He began to show me how He’s all encompassing, all knowing, and wants to be involved in every detail possible of our lives. How He already knows every secret of every soul, but He wants to be invited in. All too often we shun our Maker from the deepest, darkest places of our hearts because we’re afraid of Him judging us for what’s inside, when in actuality we should be honored and thankful that He cares enough to want to help us clean the place up.
As I grew up, got married, had children, learned all these things and more, the characters in my head began to grow even more real. Gradually they became more than just pieces of my heart, they became pieces of the hearts of those I saw struggling around me. Their confusions, victories and disappointments became touchable to me. Even more so though, their stories became the line through which God could whisper His love. His grace and mercy began to flow through my pencil. He didn’t give me all the answers, but He allowed me to see His heart, and He gave me the ability to communicate it for Him on paper.

So now, I’m a conduit. I write with a passion, and that passion is for helping heal some of the hurt that sin has caused in this dying world.

P.S. This post was put up for YLCF's Passion with Purpose blog carnival. It's one of my FAVORITE blogs! Check it out!


  1. Amen! :D I can very much relate to writing as a deep passion. :) I listed that as one of my own on my YLCF carnival post at my blog:

    Thanks for sharing!!

  2. Jesiqua, you write for beautiful reasons and I know God will bless your words and your writing. Keep it up!

    Thanks for taking time to be a part of YLCF's link up this year! :)