Recently on Facebook I shared a dream I had that left a very strong impression on me. When I woke up, I had a very clear idea as to what the dream meant. Here’s the dream. What’s your interpretation?
I was golfing on a small executive golf course with Tiger Woods, and he was playing terribly. I kept thinking I needed to get a photo with him so that I could share it online. I actually remember thinking in my dream that Bryan Allain (a friend of mine who likes to golf) would never believe that I was golfing with Tiger.
We were walking to the next hole and I finally worked up the courage to ask him if we could take a photo. He was very kind and suggested we take one at the next tee. We got there and I suddenly realized it was the most beautiful course I’d ever seen! The next hole stretched down a long hill and beyond the green, the ocean. Mountains in the distance. Amazing.
Suddenly, a crowd came out of nowhere and I was trying to take this picture with my phone, but my phone was suddenly an iPad and it fell to the ground in the melee and broke. I felt frantic. I had to get this photo taken! I sat there on the tee and tried to put the iPad together but I couldn’t. I spent the rest of my dream trying to put the iPad together. When I looked up, Tiger was gone.
So, any ideas? Here are some of the more interesting interpretations my Facebook friends offered up:
“Focusing on technology can rob us of even the most significant events. The effort to “capture” it can actually make it disappear.” – Ken
“You actually hate Tiger Woods.” – Jason
“Smashed dreams are overshadowed by the beauty of the moment.” – Elie
“1) don’t miss the beauty (the scenery) in search of fame and celebrity (tiger). 2) dont wait to act, have courage or the moment might pass you by. 3) experiencing things > documenting things 4) play more golf with Bryan this summer.” – Bryan
* * * * *
Dreams are funny things. I certainly don’t think they all have deeper meaning, but I woke up with such a clear sense that there was a message hidden in this one for me. Immediately, I thought to myself, “I have to worry less about fame and notoriety and more about enjoying the course I’m on. It’s actually a beautiful life.”
Have you had a strange dream lately? Or maybe you think you have a better interpretation for my round with Tiger?
La La Land. I told Maile as we walked out of the theater that I had tears in my eyes throughout the movie because the various parts about trying to make it as a creative person hit too close to home.
There’s a part where Mia and Sebastian, two young folks trying to chase down their dreams in Los Angeles, are having it out. He has just delivered the news to her that she got a call back for a rehearsal and they really want to see her. This could be her big break.
But she’s failed too many times in the past. She’s tells him she’s finished.
* * * * *
Mia: Maybe I’m not good enough.
Sebastian: You are.
Mia: Maybe I’m not.
Mia: I don’t want to do it anymore.
Sebastian: Why?
Mia: Because I think maybe it hurts just a bit too much.
* * * * *
Oh, man, that’s it, isn’t it? We have these things we want to do, things that are connected to the deepest parts of ourselves, but we’ve tried so many times, and nothing has hit the mark. We try and try again, and each time it feels like a crap shoot, the toss of the dice. We think we know what we want to be, we think we know where we want to be, and it all seems so impossibly far away.
I started chasing my dream of being a writer seven years ago. And I’ve made a living at it these long seven years. But there’s always something out there, something just beyond my reach. I remember standing at that kitchen island in Virginia, telling Maile we didn’t have enough money to get through the winter. I remember the two of us unpacking our things into my parents’ basement. I remember all the various contracts that fell through or didn’t happen, for whatever reason. The rejection emails from agents and editors and the low traffic at the blog, no matter how hard I tried.
There are a million and one reasons to quit, and they come at us fast. The disappointment hurts. The sense, not that people hate what you’re creating, but that they honestly couldn’t care less.
The ache I felt in the movie, the ache that resonated with me, had nothing to do with what Mia and Sebastion did or did not manage to do by the end of the movie (no spoilers here, at least not on purpose). The ache I felt was in response to this knowledge that there are things we are meant to do, no matter what road they lead to.
Does that make sense?
I truly believe I’m meant to live this life as a writer, and that will stay true for all the years I live on this planet, whether I have a New York Times bestseller or simply continue on writing books that handfuls of people read. And that’s the ache, the oh-so-sweet ache: this is my life. I’m living it. It is neither more nor less than what it is.
Can that be enough? That’s the question. Can this life I’m living be enough?
* * * * *
Here’s to the ones who dream
Foolish as they may seem
Here’s to the hearts that ache
Here’s to the mess we make
Seven years ago, Maile and I had just gone through one of the most difficult holidays of our young lives. I had just turned 33. We had walked away from a failing business, left a community we loved, and moved into my parents’ basement. We brought along with us our four children, $50,000 in debt, and a nagging sense that we were failing at this thing called life. All of our friends seemed to be doing very well for themselves. They seemed to be right where we imagined you should be when turning the corner into your early 30s: decent vehicles, a mortgage, and well-rounded children playing soccer and the violin and learning three different languages.
We, on the other hand, were starting over. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.
This period of life came to mind again as we watched some old home movies with the kids between Thanksgiving and Christmas. In fact, it didn’t just come to mind – it was right there in living color for us to experience all over again. The Christmas of 2009.
There the kids were in the video, unwrapping a meager stash of gifts in my parents’ basement. I don’t remember how we paid for gifts that year. I can’t really remember. There sat Maile and I, looking somewhat depressed, somewhat dazed. Life had run over us with a steam roller, and the kids didn’t seem to have a clue.
While we watched that video (it seemed to come on the television out of nowhere), Maile looked over at me and wrinkled her nose.
“I’m not finding this one particularly enjoyable,” she whispered.
“Me, neither,” I said.
But the kids were caught up in it, remembering this, remember that. And they were so tiny, their voices squeaky new: Cade only 6, Lucy 5. Abra and Sammy were just babies: 20 months and 5 months, about the same ages as Leo and Poppy are now.
Tonight, though, as I think back through that time and the images in the video, one sentence came to mind: “That’s what trust looks like.”
* * * * *
I love Henri Nouwen’s take on trust:
Trust is the basis of life. Without trust, no human being can live. Trapeze artists offer a beautiful image of this. Flyers have to trust their catchers. They can do the most spectacular doubles, triples, or quadruples, but what finally makes their performance spectacular are the catchers who are there for them at the right time in the right place.
Let’s trust in the Great Catcher.
Even after I finished my post last week – An Honest Reflection on Self-Employment, Canceled Contracts, and Hope – I continued thinking about it quite a bit. I felt like it was unfinished, that perhaps I had left something unsaid that needed to be said. And I realized that this is it: the most important ingredient in this life of self-employment has been trust.
Not that I have always had perfect trust in God. Not that I haven’t been assailed with worry or anxiety from time to time (or more often than that) – my distrust becomes evident mostly in times when I begin working on a resume. Yet, the single most important thing that has taken me from this day to the next has been a determination to trust that God knows what God is doing. God knows what Maile and I are going through. And God is using it all in this tapestry of mercy and grace, a creative endeavor of which I only ever receive the smallest glimpse.
* * * * *
This is not meant to be a sermon, or a guilt trip. If you are not doing what you feel you are called to do, or if you are not “living the life” the televangelists are shouting about, I am not here to tell you that the reason is a lack of trust. I don’t believe that God approaches us with a Trust-Me-Or-Else approach. Trusting God is not something that will always bring monetary rewards. It is not something that will elevate you above your peers or bring you a world’s helping of success.
But I will say this: trusting God is a conscious decision to move into a gentler movement of mercy. I have practiced trusting all these long seven years, and I can feel it strengthening in me. I can tell when I am moving away from it, when I am trying to force things in my own timing, when I am operating out of fear. And I can sense the deep sigh of relief when I move closer to absolute trust.
Where are you in this journey? Can you trust your life to an invisible force that cares only for your greatest good? Can you even believe in that? Sometimes I can. Other times, I simply hope.
* * * * *
This is a very long post. I will end it with my favorite words of all time about trust, written by Brennan Manning in his book Ruthless Trust:
The way of trust is a movement into obscurity, into the undefined, into ambiguity, not into some predetermined, clearly delineated plan for the future. The next step discloses itself only out of a discernment of God acting in the desert of the present moment. The reality of naked trust is the life of the pilgrim who leaves what is nailed down, obvious, and secure, and walks into the unknown without any rational explanation to justify the decision or guarantee the future. Why? Because God has signaled the movement and offered it his presence and his promise.
Find the gentle movement of God in your life. And then trust it.
* * * * *
As a complete aside, I am offering a few writing classes that begin in February: Creative Writing for Kids, Fiction Writing, and Memoir Writing. If you’re interested and would like to learn more, you can check those out HERE.
Ride with me for just a moment on this roller coaster called self-employment, in which I try to provide for two adults and six children. This is how it often goes: I live a life of relatively uneventful days and sleepless nights. Poppy is five months old and highly skeptical of the benefits of sleeping through the night; Leo likes to come and say hello early in the morning; Sam wanders into our room in the middle of the night and sleeps on the floor. I do not set my alarm clock. I rarely work outside the house.
This is how I make money: If I can land two book projects per year, we’re a little short. At three we are doing okay. At four we worry if we have put enough back for taxes. We have sometimes gone months with no income. I only tell you this so that you understand the thin sliver of a line between a life where we eat at restaurants and a life where we don’t fill up the gas tank the entire way.
This is the life of this self-employed, freelance writer. I am not complaining. I am just telling you how it is.
* * * * *
We approached 2017 with very little confirmed work. We always know the month when the money will run out if I don’t land any new work. For a little while, The Month was January, 2017. And it marched ever closer.
We don’t look directly at The Month anymore. When I first started freelancing, The Month was like a spotlight in the eyes, far off but still blinding. It’s difficult to live that way, constantly shielding the eyes, and we learned to look away, to look at the here and now. This is the best way to live.
But as we approached The Month – January, 2017 – I couldn’t help but notice my pulse going up. I started driving for Uber to buy a little time. The flexibility is nice. The people are interesting.
Then, relief.
A job. A verbal commitment. We would meet the week after Christmas to finalize the deal, sign the contract, receive the deposit. This was one third of what we needed to pay the bills in 2017, and it was a relief. The blinding light of The Month dimmed. Between that job, Ubering, and other odds and ends, 2017 was well on its way to being covered, financially speaking.
Then, the sucker punch.
A two-sentence email. The customer changed their mind. They’d had second thoughts.
I am not complaining. I am just telling you how it is.
* * * * *
In 2010 or 2011 or any of the early years after I started writing full time, this is the kind of news that put me in full resume update mode. I’d start perusing job sites. I’d make a few desperate calls to friends. And for a few short hours last week, I was back there again.
Why do I try to do this for a living? What kind of a loon am I, believing I can make a living as the sole earner in our house by writing? Wouldn’t a regular income be better, even if it meant long hours away from the family, even if it meant doing something I didn’t love doing?
Why did I think this good thing could happen?
This is the question we ask ourselves when it feels like the bottom has fallen out. Most of us have been there, in one form or another. This is the question the single person asks when yet another relationship fades without fanfare, the question the entrepreneur asks when the financing falls through, the question the couple asks when her period arrives again.
These are the questions we ask ourselves when we are losing hope.
* * * * *
Don’t feel ashamed if you’ve misplaced your hope. It happens to the best of us. Sometimes this planet, with all that happens on it, can feel like a God-forsaken lump of dirt hurtling through the universe.
But also remember this. Hope is not simply something you keep your eye on. “Don’t lose hope!” people say in those saccharin voices, but hope is not something that can easily be kept track of. Hope is not like a set of keys or a tooth brush.
Hope must be wrestled to the ground. Having hope takes serious effort. It’s a slippery little devil, and if you don’t insist on grappling with it, it will slip away from you.
* * * * *
Deep breath. Exhale. Deep breath. Exhale. Deep breath. Exhale.
* * * * *
It’s 2017. 2016 may have taken your lunch money and kicked you to the curb. 2016 may have disappointed you in a thousand different ways. 2016 may have filled you with doubt and uncertainty and cynicism.
But it’s not 2016 anymore. Wrestle hope to the ground. Prepare to be surprised for good. Don’t give up.
From the time I was six years old until I was around ten, my family lived in a great, sprawling farmhouse with a covered front porch and two huge oak trees in the front yard. There was a garden and barns made for exploring. If you read The Day the Angels Fell, it’s basically the setting for that novel. Every autumn, my father raked all the beautiful, brittle leaves into piles and we ran the path his rake made and we laughed and threw colors around. As the sun set in similar fashion somewhere over the hill, he lit the piles on fire, and the flames danced like savages.
In many ways, I was hidden from the world in those years, living so removed from other people. I went to a tiny school that had tiny problems. My closest friends were, for the most part, my cousins, or the three boys I met in first grade. Whenever I could sneak away from the house, I’d be down at the creek or riding my bike on back-country roads, not a soul in sight.
It was about that time in my life when I took to sleeping under the bed. I’m sure this gives you some kind of psychological magnifying glass with which to view my life. There were three doors in my room: one went into my parents’ room; one opened into a huge closet that didn’t seem to have a back; the third led into the neighboring house (the farmhouse we lived in was split into two separate dwellings). Maybe it was the confluence of all these doors, or the wide windows that opened up onto the porch roof, or the deep-red carpet, but something caused me to crave security, and I found it in the tight space beneath my bed.
I hid away down there, blocking myself in with boxes and pillows and an old blanket I had since my birth. I slept well in that sealed off darkness. I breathed easier.
* * * * *
One of the reasons that hiddenness is such an important aspect of the spiritual life is that it keeps us focused on God. In hiddenness we do not receive human acclamation, admiration, support, or encouragement. In hiddenness we have to go to God with our sorrows and joys and trust that God will give us what we most need.
In our society we are inclined to avoid hiddenness. We want to be seen and acknowledged. We want to be useful to others and influence the course of events. But as we become visible and popular, we quickly grow dependent on people and their responses and easily lose touch with God, the true source of our being. Hiddenness is the place of purification. In hiddenness we find our true selves.
Henri Nouwen
This piece by Henri Nouwen has upended me, as good writing often does. I think about how much of my writing life is spent seeking acclamation, admiration, support, or encouragement. And while I do not believe those things are negative in and of themselves, I do believe that there is also something blessed to receive when we live in the lack of them, when we are forced to find our approval and identity somewhere deeper.
Do I ever leave room for hiddenness? Or must all of my joys and heartaches immediately be shared with the world?
Nouwen talks about the dependency these things create within us. What at first feels like encouragement or support can all too quickly turn into that which my creativity depends on. What does it look like when a writer begins trying to please everyone in an attempt to relive, over and over again, those moments of acclamation? How can one possibly navigate the minefield that is the approval or disapproval of hundreds or thousands of people?
And what, then, will we do with a rush that craves more and more, is never satisfied? How far will we go in our pursuit of the like and the share?
Hiddenness, it seems, in some form, is the answer. But I’m left with more questions than answers.
What does it mean for me, a writer in this particular age, to seek out hiddenness? My word processor underlines “hiddenness” in a scribbly red, as if to negate it, as if encouraging me to delete it from my vocabulary.
“This is not a word,” It says. “Hiddenness is not a thing. Where you do find it, delete it. Replace it with something else. Something in our culture’s vocabulary.”
But hiddenness is a thing, no matter what spell check says. I experienced it sleeping under the bed when I was a child, and it was glorious, that sense of security, of safety. That sense that no one else in the entire world knew where I was or what I was about. Hiddenness is a safe space. It is a place full of truth, a place where God dwells, waiting to commune with us. And while it may be empty of certain, valuable things, I’m quite sure it is full of many others.
Maybe that’s what I’m looking for: a new set of values.
Can we find the courage to hide in a world that only values that which has been found?
This is me rocking a spike, oversized glasses, and headphones that are either playing “You Can’t Touch This” or “Go West Young Man.” Also, that’s either an Ocean Pacific or Bugle Boys sleeveless T because, obviously, who covers up guns like that? But even then, I cared most about good stories.
Back in early June, I sent my literary agent a text. We were expecting to hear a final decision from the publisher on Tuesday. It was Wednesday. I felt like so much depended on this. So many years. So many words.
“Any news?” I asked in the text.
She wrote back.
“Call me.”
* * * * *
In the dog days of August, circa 1985, I was a skinny 8-year-old reading The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe on the farmhouse porch, waving away the flies. Cows mooed in the background. The thing I hated the most was mowing the lawn, or anything else that interrupted my reading.
We had no air conditioning in that massive farmhouse, only a handful of huge box fans to move the warm air around, and on especially hot nights I’d sleep on the floor in front of one of them, the loud hum drowning out the world. I attached a sheet to the fan so that it blew up around me in a dome shape. It was like sleeping inside of a cloud.
I read under that dome with a flashlight until long into the night, the pages flapping back and forth in the gale force. It was like my own world, my own universe. There was the smell of the farm, the scratchiness of the carpet, the weariness of my eyes growing heavy. There was nothing else.
I devoured books in those days. I drank them down straight. The best of them left me in something like a buzzing stupor, and I wandered the farm for weeks after finishing, drifting through the beautiful trance they left me in. I sat by the creek, fishing, and my mind followed the water, meandered all the way to the sea.
I felt a tangible ache for Narnia. I opened every closet twice, quickly, and peered deep into the darkness, hoping to see snow-laden branches or hear the voice of a faun.
* * * * *
In college I dove deep into writing. It started out as journaling, moved into poetry, and occasionally stumbled into a few, halting efforts at novels. I spent afternoons beside the Yellow Breeches, a narrow stream that wound its way through our campus. I wrote in pencil then. Words and words and words in a little red notebook I found in the basement just the other day. The eroded red notebook was hiding between old yearbooks and containers holding floppy disks. The words are barely visible now, rubbed raw by all those years, all those moves.
I wrote the first paragraphs of at least twenty novels that never went any further (I wonder about all of those characters, where they went, what ever happened to them). I wrote a fair amount on three novels, got far enough to realize I didn’t know what to do with the middle part. There was something about that section of a story that always felt awkward, always trailed off into mumbled plot lines that never recovered. I became bored writing them and figured that meant someone would get bored reading them. I set them aside or threw them away.
I finished writing one novel in those days, very short. Very not-good. I might know where it is, but I’d rather not look at it. If I do find it, I think I’ll burn it ceremoniously. Maybe on a floating bier.
* * * * *
My writing road, like most people’s, has been long and winding. For the last 17 years I’ve experienced mostly rejections: I was rejected from at least five MFA programs (at least five – I’ve lost track), numerous literary journals, countless agents, and a series of publishers. I’ve kept many of those rejections in a file folder somewhere. I don’t know why. Maybe because they’re like scars? Maybe because I still want to prove them all wrong? Maybe because they make up this long, winding road I’ve traveled?
I broke into the publishing world seven years ago with the publication of a book I co-wrote, and that led to a lot of opportunities. In the following years, I self-published three books and co-wrote another fifteen, but my dream was still to have a publishing house publish my fiction. My own stories. Ever since I was 8 years old, under that sheet dome in the middle of the night, reading The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe or A Wrinkle in Time, ever since then I’ve wanted nothing more than to make up stories, write them down, and have people read them.
Why?
I don’t know. I’ll have to think about that one. Maybe it’s because, to me, that’s the most real sort of magic I’ve ever encountered. I want to do it, too. I want to make that magic.
Four months ago, we started sending a book proposal for The Day the Angels Fell to publishers. That’s the book you all helped me self-publish through Kickstarter at the beginning of 2015. I think my agent sent the manuscript to 15 or 20 acquisitions editors. You can read about that process HERE and HERE. And that came with it’s fair share of rejections.
As one editor put it,
“Much as I like the voice, though, I’m afraid the story overall just doesn’t feel quite right for us.”
It was a long, hard wait, and towards the end I got impatient. I felt like the road I was on had leveled out and would never change. I was ready to move on with my life, chalk it up as another failure. But my agent, Ruth, kept encouraging me.
“Just give it a little more time,” she said.
So we did.
* * * * *
Then, a spark of light. An acquisitions editor liked my book. She loved it. She wanted her publishing house to take it on. We spent the better part of an afternoon talking with her, hearing her dreams for the book. I don’t think I said much. I was in shock. Someone who believed in my writing as much as I did? Someone from a publishing house who had fallen in love with something I had written?
“I’m taking this to my publication board next Tuesday,” she said. “And I’m hopeful that after that meeting, we will be making you an offer to acquire The Day the Angels Fell.”
* * * * *
Tuesday came and went. By Wednesday, I still hadn’t heard anything. I sent Ruth a text.
“Any news?”
She wrote back.
“Call me.”
I called her.
“I have good news,” she said. I sat there quietly as she told me the story.
Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group, was offering me a three-book contract which included re-releasing The Day the Angels Fell, publishing the sequel, and publishing a third book of fiction, to be determined. I was shocked into silence. I couldn’t speak.
About ten minutes into describing the offer and what it meant, Ruth paused. She asked me a question.
“Are you happy with this?” There was uncertainty in her voice.
I laughed.
“Sorry, Ruth, I’m just in complete shock. I’m happier than you can imagine.”
* * * * *
Maile was listening outside the door the entire time. As soon as I hung up with Ruth, she came flying into the office.
“So?” she asked. “What did she say?”
I took a deep breath. I nodded.
“It’s good news. They’re making a three-book offer.”
She squealed.
“Are you serious?” she exclaimed. I told her the details. About that time, Ruth forwarded the offer letter to me.
“Here it is,” I told Maile. I started reading it to her, the opening note from the enthusiastic editor, Kelsey, who would now edit three of my novels. Here is one of the paragraphs:
When I initially read the first paragraph of The Day the Angels Fell, I was hooked. When one of our sales representatives read that same first chapter he emailed me immediately and said “this is something special.” Whether I’m reading what your fans are writing, listening to what my colleagues are saying, or am immersed in Sam Chambers’ world myself, I know that what you have here, in this book and in your writing overall, is exceptional.
The offer letter was so kind, so encouraging, so affirming of everything I’ve always tried to do as a story-teller. I got to the second paragraph of the offer letter when I was overcome with emotion. I sat down on the floor in the office, leaned my head up against the door frame, and sobbed.
“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” I finally said.
“You’ve been working towards this for years,” Maile said, laughing, still in disbelief. She sat down beside me. “This is it. You’ve finally done it.”
She took the computer from me and finished reading the letter out loud, and I sat there listening. It felt like she must be reading a letter written to someone else. I couldn’t believe this was for me.
* * * * *
I don’t think I ever would have gotten to this point without you, my kind and encouraging readers. For nearly seven years you’ve been reading my blog posts as well as the books I’ve co-written. Whether it’s the comments you’ve left, the emails you’ve sent, the reviews you’ve written, or the way you gave me overwhelming support when I self-published The Day the Angels Fell, your encouragement has propelled me forward on this journey.
There’s a long, exciting road ahead. We plan to release a hardback version (hardback!) of The Day the Angels Fell in the fall of 2017 (I know! That seems so far away!). It will be freshly edited and come with a brand new cover. For those of you who have been waiting for the sequel, The Edge of Over There, we’re planning to include the first few chapters of that book at the back of The Day the Angels Fell.
This is where I ask, once again, for your help. I cannot re-launch The Day the Angels Fell without your enthusiastic support. If you’re interested in being part of a fun group that will help me with the release of this book, sign up HERE. You’ll even receive a FREE ADVANCED COPY OF THE BOOK BEFORE IT RELEASES! In exchange, we’ll ask only two things: please review the book online, and help us spread the word during its release. You’ll also receive updates on our progress and provide important input on various things as they come up in the design and planning phase.
I’d love for you to continue to join me on this incredible ride. I promise I won’t email you more than once or twice a month. I won’t be sending these out in my normal newsletter, so if you can help with this book launch, please be sure to sign up HERE.
* * * * *
Now that the spike of excitement has begun to level off, I sit back and I wonder.
I wonder if I would have been in this precise spot, written this precise book, if I wouldn’t have received all of those stinging rejections through the years. I wonder if I would have met all the wonderful people I’ve met along the way if this opportunity would have fallen into my lap years ago. I wonder if we can ever write the stories we’re supposed to write without those times of deep sadness and disappointment, rejection and loneliness.
I hope you’ll keep walking your path. I hope you won’t give up. If I can do it, you can do it. I am no writing prodigy, no natural born success. I am simply someone who insisted on putting one foot in front of the other for a very long time. Someone who, with a lot of help from my writing community, refused to cave to the voices that told me I wasn’t good enough.
I wonder something else, too. I wonder what that little boy under the fan-and-sheet dome would think if he could have read The Day the Angels Fell. I wonder what dreams he would have had after reading it, what adventures he would have taken in the creek behind the church building. I wonder what he would have thought, looking up into the oak tree, the one struck by lightning when I was ten, the one that inspired the story in the first place.
Maybe somewhere, that will happen. Maybe a kid (or an adult) will stay up late into the night reading about Samuel Chambers. Maybe this book, this story, will somehow become tangled up in their life the way all those wonderful books I’ve read have become tangled up in my own.
A writer can hope.
Remember, please sign up HERE to join the launch team and receive your free advance reader copy next spring/summer. For more frequent updates and other random stuff, you can “like” my Facebook page HERE. And whatever your current dream, keep going!
