Into the Fire

I remember a time when I actually thought it was possible to be considered an author, to be accepted into the "fold" of published authors, to be a member of that esteemed grouping of writers who'd "made it". Those thoughts took place several years ago.

I've met a lot of authors who I deem to be successful – some of them might disagree because of their paychecks. Others would accept the mantle with humility. Although many successful authors have been traditionally published, some of them have gone "indie" because of the financial rewards. Of course it always helps to have the "been published" or "bestselling author" behind you when you go the independent route. 

I've done the posts on "success" and what it means at any level, but this isn't really about that. It's about my personal reflection of writing dreams, self-publishing when the stigma attached to it remained and sometimes still does, being unready for the demands of publishing, deciding the demands forced compromises I wasn't willing to make, and eventually slipping off into an undisciplined time of writing only blog posts before once again being receptive to three possible endeavors which still continue in their various states of unfinished works in progress. 

Yes, there was a time when it mattered to walk upon that hallowed ground of recognition for my work as an author. Now? I guess I can say it only matters when someone, anyone, reads one of my books and truly enjoys it. That really does matter to me.

Father, I thank you for every one of those readers. Every single one. Only you bring the good and perfect gifts, the increase. Only you. Thank you for all you've done for and given to me. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.