“And this is going to be a glorious unfolding
Just you wait and see and you will be amazed
You’ve just got to believe the story is so far from over
So hold on to every promise God has made to us
And watch this glorious unfolding”

– Steven Curtis Chapman

The words sound nice. They are nice. They are reassuring, comforting and true, but in the midst of waiting for that unfolding, the most natural thing to do is despair. To give you an update on my life, I’ve been querying potential agents to represent my book since October. To give you the run down, it is virtually impossible to be signed by a traditional publisher without a literary agent vouching for you. More than that, literary agents serve as a mentor and collaborator, which is an invaluable asset when traversing the publishing industry as a complete greenhorn. So in other words, landing a reputable literary agent would not only be the literal bees knees, but it’s also the only way forward into the publishing world.

Let me paint a picture for you: your trudging through your manuscript, editing, hacking and revising and it is anything but fun and the only thing you can focus on is the end- when you are finally able to reveal this masterpiece to the world! The world will applaud, they will throw flowers, and they will recognize the feat you have accomplished. Most importantly, the literary agents will be fighting over you, just begging for you to allow them to represent you. Fast forward to present day: I’m sitting in my stretch pants with not a flower in sight, glowering at the list of agents that I’ve submitted to and guess what? None of them are fighting over my book, heck I’ve hardly gotten responses from half of them at this point. I knew theoretically that this was the climate of the publishing industry and waiting and rejection is promised, but its quite another thing to be standing out in the cold, experiencing it yourself. As my beautiful vision begins to unravel, I’m left with a decision: either go on or quit.

Disclaimer: I’m not quitting.

In the ashes of my expectation, I find myself sitting and waiting and wondering if anyone will see the story that I’ve carried for the last five years for what it truly is. In the ashes of that expectation, I realize how very important perspective is and how it can either drive us forward or burn the bridge we’re standing on. Either we can sacrifice our dreams on the alter of our hurting pride and give in to the voices that taunt, “you’re going to fail, you’re going to fail,” or we can cry a little (only a little, mind you) and carry on.

Learning to wait well for things we’ve worked hard for is a skill worth a medal, because it takes a dedication to the vision you set out with as well as a confidence in the One who supposedly set the whole plan in motion. I’m also convinced (in spite of myself) that this type of harrowing is good for us. It tests our metal and gives us a good ribbing to remind ourselves that what we are doing is worth the pain and that we are made of tougher stuff than that. It’s worth the stretch marks, the nausea, the wondering-if-its-ever-going-to-be-born, kind of pain.

As I enter my final trimester of pregnancy, it’s impossible not to see the parallel between my writing journey and my pregnancy journey. The two are scary at times, exhilarating at times and are also pivotal to what I believe my God-given calling is. It also gives me hope to know that someday, at some point, both of these babies will be born. I have to continue to believe that and plan for that and persist, knowing that the only limits that exist are the ones that I allow to remain. As in delivery, there’s a point that arrives where you wonder if perhaps you really are incapable of going any farther and all you can think to do is lay down and die, but that’s when you know the end is near.

So you’ll just find me here until these babies are born (one figurative, one literal), sitting in my stretch pants, eating my prenatal’s, querying agents, while holding fast to the truth that it will be a glorious unfolding when it does indeed occur.