True Confessions of a Reader-Writer-Faither

I might lose some people over this post.

Okay, maybe not.

(Unless I have some very extreme readers, in which case, I might.  Goodbye, by the way).

Are you ready for this?


I consider myself reasonably well-read.  I have read Plato, Herodotus, Homer, Dickens, Austen, Poe, the Bronte sisters (Emily and Charlotte), Oates, Rand, and Lessing to name a few, but I have never read Shakespeare.  I feel immensely guilty about this.

I have read A Tale of Two Cities, David Copperfield, Oliver Twist, and Bleak House by Charles Dickens, but though I wrote a play adaptation of it many years ago, I’ve never actually read A Christmas Carol.  I feel like a fraud about this.

Emma is my favorite Austen novel (and heroine), and I like Pride and Prejudice, but otherwise, I’m not much of an Austen fan.  I don’t feel bad about this at all.

I don’t like the Bronte sisters at all.  I feel like this is because I read Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights when I was young (like nine or ten), and I should probably give them another shot, but I’m feeling unmotivated.

Outside of required reading, I didn’t touch fiction during my last two years of college.  In fact, I didn’t pick up a fiction book until about two years after I graduated:  Doris Lessing’s The Golden Notebook, if you were curious. I feel bad about this because TV was what took fiction’s place.

I love my Kindle.  There’s more, but I’ll leave it, because some would consider it blasphemous.


I didn’t write anything during November.

I didn’t write anything during December either.

I wrote about 500 words last week, and haven’t written anything since.

I should be working on A Year with the Baptists, but I’m writing a light-hearted blog post instead.

Much like reading, I didn’t do much non-required writing during college, either.

I didn’t want to write The Field, but the story wouldn’t let go of me.

Short stories are a strong point for me as a writer.  Novels? Not so much.

I’m not looking to make a living in writing.  I have two other jobs (one of them in retail) at which I make a living, and I love them both (even the one in retail).

I love the autonomy and flexibility I have being a self-published writer.  I can’t imagine giving that up, even for the prestige of traditional publishing.  (Though I might just maybe consider some sort of hybrid).

When I die, I don’t care if anyone outside of my closest circle knows about Lydia Thomas, Author. I’d rather be known just as Lydia any day of the week.

I don’t love writing.  I don’t hate it, either.  I do it because I’m good at it, and it helps me process life. (A coping mechanism, of sorts).  Sometimes, it helps someone else along the way.


I am a recovering church hopper. I don’t love this about myself, but…it is what it is.

I love talking theology, especially with my younger brother, because we can (and do!) disagree on a lot of things, but we still have great discussions.

I don’t like talking to people who already have everything figured out at all. There’s no room for growth or questions, and if you don’t think like these people, why, there’s something wrong with you. (And I’m not just talking conservative Christians here, but the more progressive ones as well).

I have boundaries that don’t make sense to many others.  If I’ve withdrawn or put up some kind of wall, it’s because I feel a boundary has been violated, and due to my personal history, I feel the need to protect myself.  I do this most often with churches, but it’s been known to happen in friendships as well. 

I have wrestled with my faith. I don’t mean that I’ve wrestled believing there is a God; however, I have wrestled with believing He is good and wants good things for me, or that He even cares at all.

I have been angry with God, to the point of extreme irreverence. It’s been forgiven, but I’d like not to go there again.

God is doing great and exciting things in my life, but I’ve had trouble trusting that this, too, won’t end with me crumpled at the foot of a door that’s been slammed in my face.  And I do feel bad about that, because I’m clearly missing His Father heart.

I don’t have all the answers, or even most of the answers, but I still fight.


Still with me, folks, or did you jump ship after the Kindle confession, or the fact that I don’t love writing, or any number of the off-putting realities of my faith walk?  I hope you’re still here and that you’ve got a new understanding of who I really am, instead of a nicely-packaged online persona.

Because if I’m not being real, well… there’s no point to any of this.


One thought on “True Confessions of a Reader-Writer-Faither

  1. I do not like Austen or her work and do not feel one shred of guilt about it, her entire book “series” is based on women, affluent women who are boring, women seeking men and frittering their life away. I realize this reflects the era in which she lived but does it make great literature? How is she a feminist? I used to love the Brontes until I processed my abusive past, now I have become disenchanted with them and their books can remain on the shelves with Austin. A male tortures dogs in Wuthering Heights, cruelty galore. Great post.


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