When Letters Echo

A Writer Reads Screwtape

There’s something humbling about rereading The Screwtape Letters as a writer. The clever, corrosive wisdom of Screwtape—feels uncomfortably close at times, like overhearing a conversation not meant for your ears, yet deeply revealing of your own soul.

In letters 16 and 17, Screwtape advises his nephew Wormwood on how to distort the human’s experience of church and community. But what struck me most in this reading wasn’t the content of the manipulation—it was the subtle way in which the manipulation itself unfolded. With language. With suggestion. With tone and implication.

It made me pause and ask: How do we, as writers and communicators, use our own words? Are we building up or slowly eroding? Are we inviting, or are we persuading with pressure dressed up as inspiration?

“Surely you know that if a man can’t be cured of churchgoing, the next best thing is to send him all over the neighborhood looking for the church that ‘suits’ him until he becomes a taster or connoisseur of churches.”¹

What’s so compelling (and convicting) here is not just the idea of spiritual consumerism—it’s the tone Screwtape uses. There’s a smoothness to it, a sly familiarity, like someone tapping your shoulder with a smile and a half-truth. It’s language bent not to serve truth but to serve control.

And that’s where it hit me: we do this too. Maybe not intentionally. Maybe in the name of “good content” or “building a platform.” But the temptation is real to use words as leverage rather than as a gift. Even the most well-meaning voices can slip into manipulation when the goal is to be heard rather than to listen first.

As an author, I often feel the tension between clarity and subtlety, truth and creativity, invitation and persuasion. I want to tell stories that matter. Sometimes I catch myself wondering—am I inviting the reader in, or am I trying too hard to lead them somewhere? I don’t want to shape the story with a heavy hand. I want to write in a way that leaves space and trust the reader’s heart to take what it needs.

“The fine flower of unholiness can grow only in the close neighborhood of the Holy.”²

Lewis’s genius, of course, is in holding a mirror up to human nature and asking, quietly, “What do you see?” And as I re-read these letters, I found myself reflecting not just on churchgoers and spiritual seekers, but on creators—on those of us who share words with others, in whatever form that takes.

What does it mean to influence with humility? What does it mean to create not from a desire to control but from a desire to love?

In Letter XVII, Screwtape takes aim at the sin of gluttony—not of excess, but of delicacy. He speaks of “the gluttony of Delicacy,” describing the human who insists that their needs are small, but who quietly demands the exacting satisfaction of their preferences. It’s a profound portrait of self-centeredness cloaked in modesty.

“She would be astonished—one day, I hope, will be—to learn that her whole life is enslaved to this kind of sensuality, which is quite concealed from her by the fact that the quantities involved are small.”³

And again, as a writer, I felt that sting. How often do I insist that my needs are small—just a quiet space to write, just a few hours of inspiration, just a kind review—and yet inside, there is a craving to be understood, admired, affirmed? It’s not wrong to desire impact. But am I seeking it gently? Humbly? Honestly?

These letters have echoed in me differently over the years. When I first read them, I saw myself as the observer—wise to the ways of the enemy, able to spot the tactics from a safe distance. But this time, I saw myself in the subtle compromises. The tone. The twist of a sentence. The quiet way influence can creep in under the guise of inspiration. I noticed how easy it can be—as a writer, a communicator, even just a friend—to shape someone’s feelings instead of truly honoring their heart. That last part has stayed with me the most. Because honoring someone’s heart means trusting them. It means leaving room for their own journey, their questions, their pace. It means offering truth, not as a push, but as an open hand. And that’s the kind of writer I want to be—not one who leads with cleverness, but one who leads with care.

And so I return to this question: What kind of influence do I want to have?

I want my words to be an open door, not a carefully angled funnel. I want my stories, my devotions, my letters to readers to feel like warm invitations to truth, not persuasive essays dressed up as care. I want my writing to be rooted in trust—trust that the Spirit is already at work in someone’s heart, and I am simply offering a small candle to help them find their way in the dark.

Words carry weight. We know this as readers. We feel it as writers. And Lewis knew it deeply when he wrote The Screwtape Letters. But in the echo of these fictional letters, we’re reminded of our very real calling: to choose humility over influence, clarity over control, and love over manipulation.

Because in the end, it’s not just what we say. It’s how we say it.

-Jennifer Moorman is a USA TODAY bestselling author known for heartwarming novels infused with magic, including The Vanishing of Josephine Reynolds and the Mystic Water Series. A former senior editor at HarperCollins and professional singer, she brings a rich storytelling background to everything she creates—from folklore retellings to Strawberry Shortcake children’s books. Jennifer lives in Nashville, where she writes stories that celebrate wonder, hope, and joy.

1. Lewis, C.S. The Screwtape Letters: Annotated Edition ©2013 CS Lewis Pte Ltd.

2. Lewis, C.S. The Screwtape Letters: Annotated Edition ©2013 CS Lewis Pte Ltd.

3. Lewis, C.S. The Screwtape Letters: Annotated Edition ©2013 CS Lewis Pte Ltd.