An amazing thing happened today. The fulfillment of a lifelong — no wait, make that four-year old dream. My book, the one I authored, has been published. I opened up the link the publisher sent me and there it sat, ready to be added to a curious browser’s shopping cart. The most thrilling part to me was seeing my name emblazoned on the front cover. That’s my name. On a book!
I know having a book published is nothing like having a baby, but there are similarities. I first got the contact information in December, about nine months ago. After a few anxious months passed, including a bit of nausea at times, my book has arrived (minus the hours of painful labor on my part). Though it doesn’t nearly reach the thrilling joy of bringing a child into the world, my excitement in my flagon of joy is bubbling over the brim. My very own book has been published.
Reading and books have been a huge part of my family. My mother taught me my several letters before I was two (perks of being the eldest child of a schoolteacher), and my voracious reader of a father read hundreds of books to my siblings and I in the years we lived at home. From childhood stories about trains to classic novels from abiding authors, the thrill of words grows and deepens. From blank sheets of lined paper to a paperback book — the circle is complete. Thanks Mom, thanks Dad; this one is for you.
Thank you, Jesus. The glory is all yours.