The highway where semi trucks were racing down. The highway that had a mile-marker telling me I was thirty-some miles from home.
Now, my van needs new tires. This became evident when I lost control a few times, hydroplaning across the water. I prayed. I cussed (whoops). I prayed…and repented of my cussing…and then turned right back around and cussed again. Ugh. (NOTE: my kids weren’t in the car…my worse cusses around them are “shoot!” and “doggone!”)
I hate driving in storms.
As soon as I could, I pulled off an exit, pulled into a gas station parking lot, and let my shaky hands leave the steering wheel.
The last thing I wanted to do was get back on the highway. But the thing I wanted most was to get home. I had to do the thing that scared me in order to get where I wanted to be.
It’s a lot like life. Right?
And, for me, it’s a lot like the writing life.
I don’t want to put myself “out there”…I don’t want to be the object of reviews and rejections. I don’t want to try and convince people to buy and read and recommend my books (both Paint Chips and My Mother’s Chamomile are less than $4 for an ebook download…wink). I don’t want to be in limbo with which publisher I’ll work with on A Cup of Dust and my future novels.
I really, really don’t even want to think about what will happen if no publisher will have me again. It happens, friends. It happens to really great authors. And it’s terrifying.
I really, really want to be a writer. I want to do this job for the rest of my life. I want people to read my novels.
I have to keep doing what scares me in order to get where I want to be.
So, I’m going to keep writing. I’m going to be open to what my agent says (she’s fabulous). I’m going to pray about it some more and hopefully I won’t cuss too much about it all.
The things that scare us sometimes end up making us a whole lot stronger.