Towards the end of 2012 my husband came home and said to me “I think it is time for you to write a book.”
And I kind of laughed because sure I’ve always wanted to write a book but people don’t just sit down and write books, you know? Or I mean, okay I guess they do but I’m assuming those people have an idea of what they want to write about. In 2012, I had no idea what I wanted to write about. “What made you say that?” I asked as we prepped the ingredients for dinner.
As I chopped the vegetables he told me that he ran into our old youth pastor, who had asked him about my writing. Once upon a time when I was in college that same youth pastor had asked me to turn his sermon notes into Bible studies for the youth group and that is how I spent the summer, sitting at the park with a pen and paper and further uncovering my passion. This had been the thread weaving together the seasons of my life since grade five, when Mrs. Atkinson pulled me aside, laid out my creative writing folder and told me that she had entered it in the state competition. “You should write” she said, and the words etched themselves on my heart and echoed across the expanse of years, landing again in my kitchen.
“You should write” my husband said.
“I don’t want to write about it” I whispered quietly at the counter.
“I think you need to write about it. But for now just write something.”
And so with the resolutions of the new year we pulled out a crisp new calendar for 2013 and blocked off days for me to sneak away to a coffee shop, where I would write without pause and then document the word count. It was a work of fiction, both the partially finished book and the progress, which stalled because he was right. I did need to.
Halfway through the year I ventured nervously into a new church and sat silently in the back as the pastor spoke about how our gifts were formed in us so that we could use them in community, to share widely a blessing and be given in glory. And then this happened and it changed everything.
I started over completely, putting words to our story, and this time they came freely, cathartic and cleansing and clearly a well waiting to be poured out onto the page. I didn’t know what I would do with it then but I knew the difference was that this time I wanted to write it.
I needed to write it.
As I had each morning since the words first started stirring in my heart I woke early, as the dawn broke across the sky, and settled in with a cup of coffee in the still, quiet hours before the house hummed with the laughter and life I had so long prayed for.
Bleary eyed I opened my inbox and there at the top sat a letter from a stranger that would change the course of my year. She was an editor at a publishing house, she said, and could we possible meet?
(Coming soon: Part Two: How I Met My Agent And That Time I Accidentally Crashed Blissdom)
