FOR THE LOVE OF IT

Imagine, if you will: In the heat of a car chase, trees flash by as the evil mastermind escapes with his prisoner and the hero races behind on his motorcycle, when--

Re: What If?

The smallest of notifications, one that takes up maybe an eighth of the page of the book you were just so heavily immersed in, suddenly appears, carrying the weight of the world: The reply to the email that will inform you whether or not all of your wildest dreams had come true, or, if failure was peeking its knowing eye around the corner.

It's a no.

I just knew. I knew it was a no. Leaving the fantasy world behind me, I opened the email to confirm my suspicions. I'd sent my first manuscript to this publisher almost a year ago, and the timeline for that rejection letter and this one was almost identical.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the letter, and found my instincts to be on point. It was another no.

Perfect.

Not wanting to even begin unpacking what the first no to What If? entailed, I dove headfirst back into the book I had been reading. I'd like to personally thank Kortney Keisel for the entire Desolation Series, but especially The Stolen Princess. That book allowed me to abandon my soul-crushing disappointment, at least for a little while.

10/10 fantastic distraction from reality, would recommend.

Unfortunately, believe it or not, books do end. And then you have to deal with the mess that hit the fan.

This mess was particularly large, scattering bits and pieces in every corner of my soul, because of the circumstances I currently found myself standing in.

I was not at home. Dogsitting for a friend, I could not leap into the arms of my mother, go for a run, or eat my weight in ice cream. (That last one was a tender mercy from the Lord.)

Just hours before, I had completed the first draft for my latest novel, and it succcckkkkkeeedddd. It's so bad, guys. Hot, liquid garbage. When my mother asked if she could read it, fantasies of instead ripping it to shreds filled my mind.

I was questioning whether or not I should be a writer even before the "no" came.

Finally, though not the only publisher I had sent my baby out to, the alternative had informed me through a different heart-racing reply that it could take up to seven months to make a decision. That's right, seven.

So, facing those giants, I forged ahead with the day. I worked on my Mother's Day gift, petted the dogs, and attended my online Institue (Scripture Study) Class, leaving my camera off so I could cry, and cry, and cry.

Is this really what I am supposed to be doing?

Am I really supposed to be a writer?

These were the questions that were suddenly haunting my every waking moment, and my every sleeping moment.

Was I supposed to be doing this?

Was this what the Lord wanted me to do with the rest of my life?

Or, alternatively, had I just wasted years of my life? Years.

Was it time to switch?

Was it time to throw in the towel, knowing I'd given it my best shot?

Had all of those little failures led to one, giant failure?

Had I ruined it all?

I carried these questions with me over the course of a week or so, somewhat scared to face them, and the answers that would follow.

Because I love writing. I love it so, so much. It is the most frustrating, wonderful, creative, soul-inspiring thing I have ever stumbled upon. It was the thing I had felt called to do in the past. A gift I felt the Lord had given me, and wanted me to act upon.

But what if it wasn't? What if I'd misread His answers? What if all of the "nos" were His way of trying to tell me it was time to try something else? To get a real job. To move on with my life and allow writing to be a hobby to dabble with, rather than the thing to consume my every fleeting moment.

Finally, in total humility, I took my question to the Lord. I had to know. There was nothing left to do but ask.

I asked Him if this was the path I should follow, or if it was time to abandon this dream for a new one.

And the answer, surprisingly, came from inside of me, rather than without.

Sometimes, I can feel Him speaking to me inside my head, after reading the scriptures or praying as earnestly as I possibly can.

Sometimes, it comes from the peace that overcomes all understanding, putting my heart and my racing thoughts at ease.

Sometimes, it comes in the words of another. My mother desperately tried to be this kind of answer, assuring me, "You have a gift. You cannot give up on writing. I won't let you."

She tried, but I wouldn't listen.

No, I think the Lord knew the answer to my question had to come from inside of me, or I would never listen. I wouldn't stick to it. I wouldn't have the ability to keep on when the waiting got hard and the rejections kept coming.

I want to do this. I really, really want to do this.

That was another question I don't think I wanted to face. Was this something I wanted to keep doing? Did I want to keep getting hurt? Did I want to keep risking the "nos"? Did I want to keep pursuing a career path that might lead me nowhere?

Because the Lord did not reassure me that everything was going to work out. He did not promise me that What If? was going to take the world by storm. There were no guarantees.

But, as I opened my current work in progress once more, as I began editing and smiling and laughing and loving what I did again, I remembered my why.

It reminds me of my beloved Oakely Anne.

Her favorite pastime in all of the lands is to play fetch. She is obsessed, if we're being honest, following me around each and every morning until I agree to go outside and play with her for fifteen minutes or so.

It is her highlight of each and every day. The thing she wakes up for, besides food. She would run herself into the ground, if we let her.

And she stinks at it. Terrible. The worst fetcher you have ever seen.

Despite the ball being bright orange, she loses it in the yard, constantly. She often runs in the opposite direction, unless you show her the exact trajectory you are planning to throw it. Her daring leaps are just that, daring, and about the most ungraceful thing to ever grace the planet. And, the efforts are for nothing, because she never catches it.

She is horrible at fetch, but she loves it. And that's all that matters.

Like dog like owner, it's the same with me.

I love doing this. I want to do this. Not for what may or may not come of it, but because it brings me joy and peace and fills pieces of me. It connects me to my Savior and Heavenly Father in ways I could never have imagined. It is something that feels so apart of me, I doubt I could ever truly let it go. It is something I have to do, just for the love of it.

Which, is really cool to know. It's cool to know that I am following my dreams not because the Lord promised me they would come to fruition, or because of the worldly aspirations it will most likely never bring, but because they are my hopes. Because of who they make me. Because I truly enjoy pursuing them, most of the time.

I want to do this. I need to do this, for me. And that knowledge changes everything.

It makes the rejections easier to swallow, because I remember publication is not the end goal. It makes writing more fun, because it no longer has to carry the weight of the world. It makes me confident, because I know that I have chosen this. It wasn't something that was forced upon me, it is something I actively decided to do. Because of enjoyment alone.

So, as shocking as this next statement is, I am grateful for the most recent rejection letter. I am so, so grateful for it. It has helped me to see, helped me to remember, helped me to know that this crazy ride is what I want to do.

It led me to prayer, to Him, to look within myself.

Inside I saw first and foremost a child of God. A child of a God who wants what is best for her, and wants her to chart her own course in this life with Him as her guide. Who could know better what she really wants then He, the man who knows her inside and out?

But secondly, I saw an author. An author who may never be published, but who will try her best to be content just the same, because she knows writing is what she loves to do.