in which I use lots of asterisks.

Don Miller is, I believe, a brilliant writer. I used to have a crush on him. When my heart broke I decided that I should probably just marry Don Miller. Or at least follow him on twitter. I guess you could say Don Miller was my rebound. And the guy never even knew about it. I have since moved on from any romantic notions I had for us, but I still love his writing. Which is pretty mature of me. I mean, even though we’re over, it’s not like I don’t have any use for the guy. And seriously, he does have a magical way with words.

He writes about life and God and honest thoughts and the church and Christianity and questions and being single and his friends and having no dad and a million other things, too, but those are the more prominent subject matters.

He lives in Portland (WA). Which is one of my favorite cities–another reason why I was pretty sure we were meant for each other. Duh. He is pretty famous. He is a widely respected Christian author. Which is why I was a little shocked when he wrote on his blog that a lot of what he writes is bull****.

Except he didn’t use any asterisks, if you know what I mean.

SCANDALOUS. I KNOW.

Part of what he meant is that it is a pretty presumptuous thing to write anything and just expect that people will want to read it. Let alone a whole book, he said. And on the flip-side of that, a lot of what he writes is in an effort to impress people, he confessed. It’s tricky stuff, our motives, and he was having a moment of transparency, I guess. And yes, I can see how that can feel presumptuous. Writing. Blogging. Tweeting. Definitely tweeting. Who am I? Is an age-old question that we humans like to recycle, like, all the time. Who am I to say this? Who am I to perform? Who am I to love him? Who am I to try for that? Who am I to hope for this? The list of Who am I’s is really exponential.

And I guess it comes down to just deciding who it is that you are. And let people pay attention or not. If you want to write, then write. If you want to be an x-ray tech, then be an x-ray tech. And maybe some of it ends up being bull****, but I think it’s a worse kind of bull**** to not try at all.

And in the end, there are very few opinions in each of our lives that really matter. Last night I sat across from a person I had known for maybe 45 minutes and listened to him tell me I am wonderful. He used that word. Charming to hear, yes. But is it weighty? No. He doesn’t know if I am wonderful or not. There are very few people who I care whether or not they think that I am wonderful, and believe me–when and even if I hear it from one of them, it is the dawn breaking through a night that I thought would last forever.

Maybe it’s bull**** that it means that much to me, but it does. Because the truth is that I care. I still care. Despite the heartache that entails, I care. Despite how much I know that it hurts to care, I care. Despite how much I’d rather just not sometimes, I care. About people. And I need them, I do. And you know what? That’s okay.

It has to be.

It is.

It doesn’t always feel okay. Actually, it hurts a lot sometimes. This week, in particular. But it is okay. Even necessary. It’s part of what makes us human. Just like writing is part of what makes us human. Sharing our stories and our thoughts and helping each other. It’s good.

Which is why I would like to respectfully submit that your writing–that a lot of writing, actually–is not bull****, Mr. Miller.

Though, I think I know what you meant when you said that.