When I was ten years old, I decided I would write books for a living. My first novel: The Puppy Without A Tail, I wrote and illustrated in the fifth grade. The Boat that Wouldn’t Float followed a few months later, and I lost track after that of the stories in my head, and scribbled on scraps of paper, and pounded out on a Smith Corona typewriter, and finally computers. I’ve worn the letters off keyboards and burned through a handful of laptops, but not one of my novels has been published yet.

Chasing my dream of becoming a novelist began long ago, perhaps with that big, red storybook my brother Patrick read to me at bedtime. How I loved that book. By high school, the English hall became my home. In college, I read the classics on the English department couch between classes and took every creative writing course I could.

Then life happened. Two classes short of college graduation, I dropped out of school to marry Scott who was headed into the U.S. Army. While he learned to fly helicopters, I wrote my first novel, a historical romance. Harlequin considered it, but decided my hero was too mean. Instead of rewriting that novel as I should have, I crafted a new story, another historical romance. This novel was considered by publishers too, and ultimately rejected for various reasons. My third novel placed in a well-known writing contest, and out of this, I landed a New York literary agent who represented some best-selling writers.

Everything began to blur after this. During the day, I reported for a newspaper. At night and on weekends, I worked on my novels, and did a poor job of raising our children while Scott flew helicopter missions. During this time, I was coming apart at the seams, drinking wine to calm down, and coffee to perk up.

That third novel didn’t sell either, but my literary agent landed me a movie option and I traveled to Hollywood to meet the producer. We agreed I’d write the screenplay. Hollywood wasn’t anything like I’d imagined. Gritty and dirty with prostitutes walking the streets, I wanted no part of that city. A day after my meeting with the movie producer, our two-year-old son was hospitalized. His second hospitalization in three months due to serious childhood illnesses. My marriage was on the rocks, and I found myself crying in church every Sunday. I was Catholic, but didn’t know Jesus personally.

By then, I had five unpublished novels under my belt, and writing was work. Like plumbing a bathroom or building a house or delivering the mail strolling sidewalks under a blazing sun. Writing was a craft I thought monkeys could master. You just put words together to serve the public, and sometimes people got mad at you for it.

Finally, I hit a brick wall and walked away from writing altogether. On the other side of that brick wall, I found Jesus.

For several years after being born again, I didn’t write at all. God rebuilt my marriage and my life during that time. And as the years passed, even though I wasn’t writing, the stories in my head wouldn’t stop. Sitting in my car at a red light, I’d find myself dreaming up imaginary characters in imaginary circumstances acting out imaginary scenes. Sometimes I’d wake from sleep with my mind rolling like a movie camera. And Jesus amazed me. The ultimate story-teller, I treasured His Word, the Bible, both the real stories there, and the tales Jesus told to teach people truth.

On bed rest for five months with my fourth pregnancy, complaining to God about how restless I was lying in bed day after day to stop premature labor, the Lord told me to write again. Write for the love of writing, God seemed to say, Write for your love of Me. 

So I wrote my first Christian novel while in bed and didn’t do anything with it for two years. Then pregnant again, on bed rest again, I pulled out that novel and polished it up. After birthing our fifth child, I contacted a Christian literary agent, a person named Leslie H. Stobbe I found listed in a writer’s reference book at the local library. Wanting a lady agent, I sent her a query through snail mail. Leslie called me and I was shocked to hear a man’s voice say, “This is Les Stobbe.” Later, Les and I laughed over this phone conversation. Les told me queries in this day and age came through email. I told him he had a deep voice for a Leslie.

For seven years, Les has been my faithful agent even though the three books I’ve written for the Christian market haven’t sold and I’ve taken long breaks in between to have babies. I’ve learned to use email, joined facebook and pinterest, and discovered what the word “blog” means. For me, blogging is connecting with people through telling stories and I thank all of you for reading my posts.

I tell you all this because I’m headed to Mt. Hermon this weekend for a Christian writers’ conference. I’ve spent several weeks doing conference homework for a writing class I signed up for there, and when I sat down to blog today, everything but the conference escaped me.

I just finished rewriting one of my novels, which I hope to pitch to editors. This novel was actually the second novel I dreamed up back in the early 1990’s, which I’ve rewritten from scratch three times now. I can’t decide if I’m persistent or just plain crazy. I’ve chased this dream of becoming a novelist so many miles, I’d probably be in China by now if I’d run after this dream on foot, or dug my way to China with my bare hands as someone I once knew used to say about obnoxiously persistent people.

This morning before dawn, I woke with the distinct impression God was speaking to me. What are you in control of? He asked. In my half asleep state, I came to the staggering conclusion I was free to sin or not to sin. That was it. I wasn’t in control of my health (the melanoma taught me that). My money (or lack of money), my marriage, or raising our kids and how they might turn out. And I wasn’t in control of my writing career (or lack of writing career). Oswald Chambers says sin is that old satanic right to yourself. The right to do things your way. And everything in our lives is affected by this choice to do it our way, or God’s way.

All day I’ve pondered this: sin is mine, the rest belongs to Jesus. 

The Bible says, Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. James 1:17 NIV.  

When I was in my late twenties with my writing career looking rosy, I watched an interview of a writer on Oprah. This writer was like fifty-six years old and had finally sold her first novel that became a bestseller. Hollywood made the book into a movie. Of course it wasn’t the writer’s first work, she’d written for years and had unpublished manuscripts under her bed like every writer I know. But she said this, “I’m so grateful God made me wait until my mid-fifties to publish a novel. This has humbled me and…”

I’m loosely paraphrasing what this writer said and I can’t remember the rest of her statement because I can hardly recall the interview. I’m not even sure she said, “God” but the humble heart of this writer has stuck with me. Especially since in my youthful arrogance, I thought to myself, I’ll be published long before that age!

Now here I am in my mid-forties, humbled by writing and by life. Hoping God opens the gate for me to become a published novelist.