I’m coming to you, a 42-year-old woman who just pulled an all-nighter. Technically, when I went to bed and reset my alarm it was ten minutes before it was supposed to go off again, but I think that counts.
My first book is now officially off to the copy editor. Monday, I’ll send it to be professionally fact-checked to supplement my own process.
It’s been a long haul. I signed with my first literary agent when my middle schooler was a toddler. Over those first years, I kept putting together book proposals about women leaving the church. They didn’t sell. There evidently wasn’t an audience for that topic then—though millions of us were spilling out of our childhood faith communities. I was told another contributing factor to my failure to (book)launch was my comparatively sparse Twitter following. I eventually learned clout often has more to do with why some publishers bite than topic or thesis.
That my current book idea landed though, I think, has less to do with me and everything to do with this being the moment when my sources’ stories are deeply needed. It is a time of reckoning, for the church, for the country, for how we treat one another—and stand up for one another.
I still don’t have clout, and I’m grateful for that. My work is the quieter kind. I am drawn to sources who otherwise might not have their stories told. I absorb hours of tales from their lives, look at photos, try to understand what makes them tick. Usually, they are people who haven’t made headlines before, and I try to help them navigate the decision to share a piece of themselves with readers. Many have experienced trauma. They hope what they’ve lived will resonate with others. We leap together.
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