The children are napping. The room is still. I have just finished rewriting another chapter in a middle grade novel. I have not sold one middle grade novel yet. I have written three since graduating from my creative writing program, but have not been able to convince an editor that I can write.

But I am one of the lucky ones. And I know this. I have a brilliant editor (who won’t take my middle grade books), and I have an agent (who is hesitant to represent my middle grade books). But I at least have these. And I trust these two people very much. But it seems, it is not my time.

I know of many talented writers who are writing in the dark. Who are throwing query letters to the wind and begging to be heard. They have miraculous stories they want to tell, but neither an agent nor an editor will give them a chance. But even here, in my amazing position, I feel at times as if I am in the dark. What if I never figure this out? What if I’m not meant to be a middle grade novelist?

These are legitimate questions. Ones that should be asked and ones that should be pondered. But each failed book sent back my way, breaks me down a bit by bit. Like a chisel against a marble heart. And I feel for my dear friends who have the same dream as I. We were meant to write. We were born to do this. Why then can we not find a way to make a story work? Why are we still writing in the dark.

Alms of wisdom? I have none. But what I can offer you is my hand and the little hope I have left. So, my precious, beautiful, talented artist, I give you hope. And hope withheld makes the heart weary. I am weary. But, dear writer, come and find the arms of fellow dreamers. In their arms I know hope will be passed to you and me. In their arms arms hearts will be comforted. And in their arms hope grow beneath their whispers of faith.

Yes, writers, write in the dark, but when your heart becomes weary do not hide in your hovel. Find hope in the arms others.

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