I became a real writer by wearing out a succession of computers, sobbing piteously on my husband’s shoulder, amassing a collection of mean-spirited rejection letters, stashing one unpublished manuscript after another under my bed, and finally selling my first book only to have the publisher crash and burn not long after. Thank God, I am not in charge of my life. He is. God kept giving me plots and characters and the determination to type them endlessly onto the blank screen. He gave me a husband who labored over every word I wrote. (Tim regularly falls asleep while reading my riveting prose, once dozing off before swallowing a mouthful of tea which then dribbled onto his shirt.) God also gave me an education, a cozy home, and the exact amount of talent He knew I could handle.

Eventually, the Lord must have wearied of my weeping woes and decided He could make use of me as a writer, after all. Or maybe all that early misery was exactly what I’d needed, in order to grow into His vessel. Either way, I believe He echoed to me His words to Isaiah, “My name is the Lord Almighty. And I have put my words in your mouth and hidden you safely within my hand.” (Is. 51:15-16) When Jehovah-sabaoth, the Lord of Hosts, give you words to write and hides you in His hand, you have the courage to keep going no matter what.

These days I hammer away at a computer in my little office near the Lake of the Ozarks in Missouri. I don’t wait for inspiration to strike, because I have deadlines and commitments, and who has time for inspiration anyway? I write furiously, mostly in the afternoon and night when I’m really awake. I still sob on my husband’s shoulder occasionally, pray always for the protective hand of Jehovah-sabaoth, and I drink tea. A lot of tea.