12:00 AM
I
just signed a contract for my 17th book.
Seventeen.
That’s
not counting the four or five finished manuscripts on my computer that will
probably never be published, or the eight or nine manuscripts that I started
and never finished.
Seventeen.
It
seems like kind of a magical number. Lucky, maybe. Like it should mean more
than the sixteen that came before it. Instead, I find myself feeling a little
bit melancholy, and wondering if my words have reached the people they were
meant to reach. I wonder if my Father in heaven is pleased, or if I have meant
to do all that He intended. I wonder if my words will last—if my stories will
linger in the mind of some reader who picked up one of my books and wandered
inside the pages. I wonder if I’ll cry as I write this book…this seventeen. I
wonder if it will mean more, or less, or if the story will come easier simply
because I’ve now had practice tweezing words from my brain and putting them onto
the page.
I wonder if this one will be enough for me…this
seventeen. Will the storyteller inside me finally be satisfied, or will I look
with longing toward eighteen? I wonder…
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