silhouette of asian woman behind tree branch near endless ocean
Photo by Nguyễn Thanh Ngọc on

Check out the featured post and read more here:

“Do not despise these small beginnings, for the LORD rejoices to see the work begin, to see the plumb line in Zerubbabel’s hand” (The seven lamps represent the eyes of the LORD that search all around the world.) (Zechariah 4:10, NLT). 

Nearly three years ago, I’d drafted what I thought would be my first published book. The Lord had placed a testimony in my heart, and 300 pages later, the memoir was complete. It was a story of pain, redemption, hope, and joy. The words flowed as easily as milk and honey. I strongly believed the story needed to be told. 

Growing up hadn’t been easy. Sharing this memoir wouldn’t be either. Nothing sounds fun about exposing your past pain and tragedy. But I knew God was calling me to authorship, so I figured this was it. I reached out to all my author friends at the time, created a one-sheet and proposal, and pitched to an agent at the She Speaks Conference. The meeting came and went. 

I. Was. Devastated. 

My book did not pass with gold stars. It was rejected with red x’s. The agent told me memoirs were impossible to sell unless I was famous. Nothing was unique about my story. If I wanted to turn it into a self-help book or Christian Living, it might have a shot. But I heard nothing they said. As soon as the meeting ended, I threw myself on the floor. Huge sobs erupted deep from within. Because I’d attached my identity to my book. It was personal. They weren’t just rejecting my book. They were rejecting me. 

For a month, writing escaped me. If I saw books, pens, or paper, I lost it. Tears welled up in my eyes nearly every day. I thought maybe I’d heard God wrong. I thought maybe I wasn’t supposed to be an author, because if I was, why did I have to fail?