Into the Fire

I don't know if it's a factor of the arrival of the new year or if it's just that the compelling scenes to be written in my latest novel await to bring it to a conclusion . . . but I once again wonder about who I am as an author. 

It took a long time to call myself an author even as I'd finished more than one book. It wasn't difficult to say I was a "writer" but somehow confessing to being an author implied some sort of recognition from a good number of book sales and reviews – all that stuff. 

Fact is: I am an author (self-published) of eight novels with two more remaining finished but unpublished and one that will be published when I finish it. 

I have some good reviews but not nearly enough for anyone to take special notice. I have far more readers who have commented to me personally with their love of one or more of my stories. Either way, for me, huge blessings that I appreciate immensely. 

Maybe my first sentence above is not quite accurate. I know who I am as an author. I know why I write the way I do. I know there are elements of my novels I won't compromise. I know without the Lord giving me a storyline and characters, I've got nothing to write about. I know my books will always depict redemption and portray both spirituality and worldliness accurately. 

It's January 3rd, 2022, and this is what I'm musing about this Monday . . .

Father, as always, I know apart from you, I can do nothing. So grateful for it all. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.