Seven years ago, I read a book with a title that reflected my heart’s desire:Writing a Book That Makes a Difference. It was a high hope, and I despaired at times of being able to achieve it. There were many times along the journey I was ready to give up. In the midst of my writing journey, there were diapers to change, runny noses to wipe, boo-boos to mend and kiss. Things that seemed–and were–more important than even a book that made a difference.
This week, I’m overwhelmed and humbled by reader feedback. Through all the effort of creation and writing and revision and revision and more revision, all the waiting and working, in the end, it seems this novel I’ve written is touching hearts. My heart is full.