I read. I re-read. I wore out the steps leading up to the children's room at the Sage Library in Bay City, Michigan. I carried home stacks of books all summer long, and even after summer was over. I didn't know it then, but that's how I became addicted to story. I immersed myself in other worlds, made friends with imaginary people, and solved the world's problems all without leaving my little attic space. Well okay, I did take my books to the pool, the swing set, my bedroom, the car, pretty much everywhere I went.
Once in awhile I'd finish a book and sit with it in my lap, back cover closed, and sigh. Reliving the moments with the characters, still fresh in my mind. And sometimes my mind would wander to a question something like this: If I wrote a book, what kind of characters would I write about? Where would I want the setting to be? What would my author photo look like? (gimmee a break, I was probably 12!)
And now I know. It's a bit surreal, but I've signed a contract to publish my first novel. The dream is on its way to reality and I remember those moments in the attic so long ago and though I'm excited to bursting, a little bit scared, and worried about the marketing side, what I mostly feel is . . . grateful.
Crossing over to the other side reminds me of that scene in Indiana Jones where he has to step out into thin air before he can see the path his foot will fall upon. Every scene is written in faith that it will fall into the right hands and be read by the right people at the right time.
That God would give me a dream so long ago and bring me to this moment is humbling. I'm happily grateful and joyfully pecking away at the keyboard.
