We called it a salt lick, the stand in the woods behind our house. I never saw salt, and I never saw deer licking it. But it made a great platform to climb up on and belt out words to a standing-room-only crowd. This audience swayed to the melodies, whispered their appreciation, and clapped their praise.
I put pencil to paper, too. Songs. Silly poems. Long letters to my great-aunt, the nun. Journals.
I took a writing course and had a few pieces paid for and published. I wrote worship programs, devotionals, a church newsletter, and Bible study lessons. I taught classes and spoke at retreats.
I played to audiences of one, two, or a few. Sometimes fifty. Maybe a hundred.
I dreamed of writing a best-seller and of speaking to thousands.
But I hadn’t seen.
And I hadn’t plumbed the pain.
I’ve heard it said that most successful writers put in about fifteen years of small-audience writing before they begin to work with larger audiences. ~p.108
I figure I’ve put in about fifty.
How many doors must I knock on before THE door opens?
This publishing-for-pay thing?
Somehow it validates the work to a husband who sacrifices for its pursuit.
It validates the gift. If, indeed, it is a gift. I often doubt this.
It validates–my worth?
L.L. tells how her daughter, Sonia, wants desperately to see.
To climb the 101 spiral steps of a lighthouse in spite of knees that throb from a tick’s attack.
We lag behind the rest of the group, hear them laughing and talking above. At the halfway point, it is finally too much and Sonia can’t go on. I give her a hug, look into her eyes and say, “I’ll go up with Sara,” because I am in a dilemma; Sara wants to go to the top, but she is nervous to go alone, and Sonia cannot move another inch. She sits down on a cold metal stair, leans against white walls. “I’ll wait,” she says, eyes steady, filled with longing.” ~p. 104
I’m tired, too.
I sit with Sonia on that step and watch others make the climb, catch my breath as the the upper hatch slams, strain to hear their voices of vision.
My throat tightens with the ache of the wait. The longing to see.
And to somehow put that vision into words.
For an audience of–thousands?
Or to touch one heart.
To change one life.
Even if it’s only my own.
To see.
Just. See.
To be lost in the light and the sight.
Our worth is not in our words or the size of our audience.
Our worth is in the One who gives us words.
My dream is to honor the words He gives me.
By walking through THE door.
Whether that means publication or not.
Until then I know I’m exactly where I need to be.
Another group waits to make the climb.
She [the guide] turns to open the hatch, to let us go back down, and I hear someone whimper.
“Mommy?”
I look down and it is Sonia.
“Can I please… come up?”
She is crying, and I catch my breath. I look to the guide and mouth, “Please?” I know the schedule is the schedule, but here is my girl with tears streaming down her face, and she has come up dizzying stairs all by herself, pulled herself past pain because she wants to see.” ~p. 104
I look up.
I pull myself past pain and begin to climb again.
We continue to ruminate on Rumors of Water over at Tweetspeak Poetry. This week we’re on the section about “Publishing.”
{{sigh}} I, um {{sigh}} know the feeling well. {{sigh}} Your words are always beautiful, heart-wrenching, touching, and validating. And they will soon blow open that door of fulfillment. You bless the lives of so many. I know the Lord will give you your heart’s desires. Love you!
Thank you so much, my friend. You are always such a sweet breath of encouragement. Love you, too!
That was the most poignant part of the book (at least for me).
Dear Sandy, don’t you see how you’re touching us? Blessing us?
Keep climbing, friend. We’re all here for you.
Oh Megan. Tears.
It’d be easier to see if I didn’t have tears in my eyes. What a story of courage for both of you.
That whole story just tears at my heart.
I have to echo Megan. That portion, along with carrying Sonia to the beach undid me when I read them the first time, and again this time. I’m so glad you lifted that part out in your post.
And I’ll agree with the second part of her comment too…
The beach part. That, too. And her little cooking show was so precious. Wouldn’t you just love to meet her girls face-to-face? Oh, wait. You have kind of.
And thanks . . .
Thank you, Sandy. The taking of these words about my girl, and cradling them here… well, it touches me. Maybe that’s it, right? The more we cradle odd moments no one else thought to hold up, hold in, hand over, the more power our words have.
That story was so touching, Laura. I’ve gone back to read it so many times. Never able to get it out of my mind. Sweet girl.
our worth is not in our words or our audience, so true…for small bloggers like I am. Sometimes I get discouraged then I realize and remember it is not in who responds it is through my obediance to write it down where the blessing comes.
Sharon, could you link to your blog here?
This is the best analogy/journal of a writer-waiting-to-be-discovered that I’ve EVER read…EVER. Wow, Sandra! This is magnificent!
🙂 🙂
“Our worth is not in our words or the size of our audience.
Our worth is in the One who gives us words.
My dream is to honor the words He gives me.” Feel this way about my art too!
It’s our job to pour them, right? And His to serve. Lifting you up right now, Patsy, that He would use your words in His way.