When the dream’s big enough, the facts don’t matter
Several years ago, my husband bought me a laptop and, ever so romantically said, “Here, now go write something.” And, being the ever obedient wife, I did. Months later. I’d started reading Kristen Billerbeck‘s Ashley Stockingdale books because (are you ready for this?) I liked the covers. A voracious reader, I’d never picked up Christian fiction; I expected it to be, well, boring and preachy and unrealistic. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Then, because I didn’t know any better, I actually had the chutzpah to email her with these incredibly B-A-D one page notions (think giving someone three raw eggs and telling them it’s an omelet) of a book. And Kristen, God bless her unselfish and kind soul, responded. Instead of recommending I repeatedly pound myself on the head with my laptop, she offered gentle suggestions. A writer who had absolutely no idea who I was had emailed me. Amazing.It was all I needed. After endless internet cruising, I somehow found Cheryl Wyatt. Through Cheryl, I found ACFW. Cheryl had formed a critique group, and I jumped in. Her encouragement kept me going (it still does).
Through ACFW, at some point, I found Jessica Ferguson. At the time, we lived about three hours away from one another. Katrina changed that. Because most of the business my husband worked for was then floating somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico, we moved. As God would have it, we found jobs in the same city Jess lived it. She and I became fast friends. Jess told me I needed to go to the ACFW Conference. I’d never been to a writing conference in my life, but I trusted her. So, we made hotel reservations, I registered, and we made plans to drive there together.
In the meantime, I’d submit and get rejections. Submit, reject. Submit. Reject. Reject. Blahblahblah. Less than a month before conference, my family moved back to our pre-Katrina home. It seemed as if everything conspired against my being able to follow through with attending the conference. The night before I was to leave, I was in a puddle on the floor of my classroom trying to understand why my printer had Alzheimer’s and couldn’t remember to put ink on the business cards I was attempting to make. I couldn’t make them at home because I didn’t have a computer there yet, plus I still didn’t have internet.
Then, driving the almost six hours to my daughter’s house in Houston, the night before I was to meet Jess so we could drive to Dallas that next morning, an accident delayed me almost two hours. I didn’t arrive home from the convention until after midnight on Sunday and then be ready for school on Monday. But I made it. And it made me.
The first night of the conference, I met with the author I’d requested for my paid critique. When she told me she liked my writing, I almost fell out of my chair. Months later, she offered to refer me to an agent. In writer-land, this is a VBD (very big deal); even in Louisiana, more important than getting tickets to the LSU Championship Game. Since it’s difficult to hug via email, I sent my chapters along with profuse thanks. So, the Friday before Christmas, I left school with my work in the cyber-hands of the writer who’d just given me a fab-o Christmas gift. < Christmas Eve, because I still didn't have internet, I asked my daughter to check my email. "I think that agent emailed you," she said. I debated whether or not she should open it, but too late. Erin had already started to read it to me. The agent wanted the full manuscript. Merry, Merry Christmas. I sent the manuscript. I waited.After having wandered like Moses in the desert of rejection-land, I attempted to remain calm. Until the day my third period class walked in to see me crying as I stared at my computer screen.The agent wanted to schedule a phone call. After their collective sigh of relief that I was not looking at their grades, they celebrated with me. My epiphany? When I look back on the road I traveled, I am awed by the thin thread that connects these events. Our God truly is an awesome God. [Stay tuned for Part 2 next month!]
