Four years ago I began to write. I called it coping. I shared with
others my love story through words, woven in through life challenges. Peaking
in through a windowpane, I allowed others a glimpse into my “not so normal”
life.
Write more my readers
urged. Responding out of encouragement, I did. Never considering the seed God
was planting in my heart, a seed that with little water would take root. So I’m
here for water. Seeking a well. Eager to draw up what the Lord will provide.
Just a few days ago the journey to the well began. I couldn’t get
the faces of all the editors and agent’s that I was about to meet out of my
head. What will I say to them? What’s my “pitch? Do I have a pitch? Will they
like my pitch? Oh my goodness what am I
doing? I contemplate not going. What’s
the worse that can happen, they say no? Finding comfort in this reality, I
press on.
It was 2:10pm on Thursday, running a good two hours behind schedule (as
normal).
Checking the oil level under the hood, I get in the car with grease
on my fingers and sweat on my brow. Pulling out, I honk and wave allowing all
the neighbors to know, I was on the road!
After a short six-hour drive up Interstate 5, to Santa Cruz,
California, I arrive. Dropping off my bags, I make my way to lunch. The
conference begins and the passion around me is palpable. Hearing story after
story, tale upon tale. People got straight to business. The voices, some deep,
some high, are filled with inflection, winning over their audience of their ever-creative
masterpiece.
Sitting at lunch I begin the first conversation; a much dreaded
dialogue. My heart begins beating out of my chest. I find I am wearing a smile
that to a stranger looks genuine, but I know it’s filled with fear and
insecurity. What are they going to ask
me? What are they going to say? My plate’s filled with salad. I have no
appetite.
“This is it God! You brought me here. I’m all yours. I can’t waste
your time.” I pray under my breath.
I introduce myself, quickly followed by questions intended to steer
away from the obvious. Finding out where people live, marriage status, number
of kids. Deflecting at its best.
The young girl next to me takes a bite of her food. Not long to chew
at all. She swallows. I see her out of the corner of my eye glancing over at
me. I look to the nearest clock, hoping we are almost out of time. Here it comes! I feel it, she’s about to ask me something, and it isn’t about my
grease stained fingernails. “So, what are you writing?” (Just like the
famous rap song “Whoop There it Is”).
The pit in my stomach grows and my palms begin to sweat.
My insecurities rooted in this new
passion of mine to write. I can’t help to notice the confidence of everyone
in the room. In this moment I feel God’s peace over me. Whispering in my ear, “you love to write, I’ve made you a writer, enjoy
what I am blessing you with. Be calm. Be still. I am with you.”
As I sat at that table, immersed in a “writer’s world”, my comfort
grew. God brought me to this place, asking me to be a steward of his words and
my testimony. So that is what I am here to do. I’m scared. I’m unaware. But I’m
ready.
I take my attention off the clock. Look my neighbor straight in the
eyes. I answer her question with confidence. Leaving my fear for the enemy to
choke on, I choose to honor my God. This could be the beginning of a journey to
a calling I never knew I had.
The day continues and dinner
roles around. Plates piled with green beans, roast beef, and a slop of carrot
soufflé (whatever that is). Writers eager and nervous to share with the chosen one; the editor or agent of their
choice. It was time to pick their brain, or pitch our story. We wait for our
invitation to begin.
Everyone’s sat. The agent leads the table with a welcome,
encouraging us to enjoy our evening as a family. We make our way around the
table for introductions.
Nervous, preparing to “win” her over with my idea, I wait as the
writer ahead of me starts us off. Appearing to listen, I find myself murmuring
what I have to say under my breath. Wavering between the table talk and my
inner voice, I catch wind of a conversation that startles my thoughts. I lean
forward, all ears.
“We, as agents, aren’t really looking for memoirs or books that
incorporate some degree of trauma/life tragedy, not wanting anything with heavy
topics.” WHAT! That’s precisely what
I have. That’s what I have been working so hard on. All these women I’ve been interviewing, turning their stories of life by storm into a narrative
non-fiction. NOW I find out they aren’t looking for books on these topics! Hoping
my face doesn’t display the utter shock through my fake smile. I keep
listening.
In between bites she
continues, “I would love to have someone submit something they wrote about a
dog.” A DOG! What the heck, who writes about a dog? Aren’t those books for the
pet store? For children? Discouraged and frightened by the new reality, I struggle
to finish my dinner.
Returning to my room, I can’t stop thinking about what I just heard.
Confused. This was just one agent, and they can’t all think this way. Trying to
get my thoughts back on track, I struggle. Something she said I was responding
to. I didn’t know what. I didn’t know why. All I could do was go to sleep and
wait on God.
It was an hour before my alarm sounded. I wake abruptly. Finding myself
sitting straight up in bed, blurting the words: I have a dog, I HAVE A DOG!
I have a terrible dog. A dog that eats socks and throws up boxer
shorts. A dog, that arrived in my husband and my life, shortly after our wedding
day. Expecting to be fostered by us as a potential companion dog. Benefitting
from my husband being in a wheelchair, the dog would learn so much. But with a
hyperactive personality he quickly became a “companion school drop out”. Good
thing since we fell in love, not willing to part. We have spent the last eleven
years with this crazy mutt. We’ve walked through life with him by our side. He’s
a not so average dog, for a not so normal
life.
That’s it! This dog is going to share our story. The story everyone
keeps telling me to write.
That day. That dinner. During our family time around the table. God
gave me strength to share but more importantly to listen.
There’s no doubt I will be here next year. Because I will have story
to share about MY DOG!
-Thank You Mt. Hermon!
*Also, I'm excited to say a publisher WAS in fact interested in my book! Working on that for now, your prayers appreciated.
Shine ON!
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