I was sitting in the tiny upstairs computer lab of the Fine Arts Building at the University of Georgia when my life changed.
Strictly speaking, the next chapter in the story of “How I Became R. A. Nelson” should be the writing of Gatekeeper; but, since I have already told the story of how the Gatekeeper trilogy came to be (see my posts on the nascience of The Finding, The Leaving, and The Keeping!), I shall skip ahead a bit. I finished Gatekeeper I: The Finding (which, at that point, was simply Gatekeeper) at the end of my senior year of college, turned it in for credit as the completion of my honors independent study project, and then took the next two summers to edit and expand it. (Trivia fact: the entirety of chapter six did not exist in the first draft of the novel.)
Finally, in September 2007, I sent the manuscript (with cover letter and everything proper) to a publisher recommended by the professor who had served as my honors project tutor. It was a small publishing company, but I tried not to get my hopes up; after all, I was twenty-two years old, and it was my first book. I determined not to think about it again for six months and threw myself into my second year of graduate school – which, obligingly, proved to be such a doozy of a time that I barely emerged with sanity intact, let alone enough spare soul-space to fret over the fate of my little novel.
However, in March, I decided I might as well follow up. I sent a respectful, humble, “please-forgive-me-for-taking-up-even-a-hairsbreadth-of-your-valuable-time” inquiry to the publishing company and returned my attention to the business of becoming an actor.
For one more evening, at least.
The following day, I decided to take the ten minutes I had before rehearsal to check my email. Accordingly, I went up to the second floor of the Fine Arts Building and sat down at one of the four computers in the “lab” (read: closet-turned-into-sanctuary-of-grad-students-too-poor-to-have-internet-at-home). Multitasking was necessary for survival in grad school, so I was also talking to my friend on the phone and eating dinner while skimming through my emails.
That’s when I saw it: the publisher had replied.
The first few lines of the email were enough to set my mind whirling, like dandelion fluff blown into the wind by a wish-making child.
They were glad I had emailed, because they were beginning to wonder why they hadn’t heard back from me. They had replied to my original email, back in September, within weeks. The publisher copied that original reply: they loved it, it was exactly the kind of work they were looking to publish, this scene was particularly intriguing, loved these characters, found this quote especially meaningful…if I was interested in signing a contract with them, could I please let them know?
I was still on the phone with my friend, and while he was a good friend, I decided with what little presence of mind I had left that he should not be the first to hear my news. I needed to call my parents. I needed to call my brother, to whom Gatekeeper is dedicated (to know why, read this). I needed…
…to get to rehearsal.
Somehow, I politely and casually ended the conversation with my friend, only to realize that my phone was in the act of dying. Somehow, I gathered up my belongings and half-eaten dinner and raced down four flights of stairs to the basement, where rehearsal was about to start in the Cellar Theatre. Somehow, I managed to call both my parents and my brother before my phone died and I flung open the theatre door with seconds to spare.
The play was Uncle Vanya, my favorite Chekhov play and one to which I give tribute in Gatekeeper III.
The small cast was composed mostly of my MFA colleagues, with whom I was quite close at this point, having walked with them through dizzying highs, bleak lows, and countless day-to-day in-betweens over the year and a half leading up to this day. I burst into the room and said something dramatic like “Friends! I have NEWS!!!”
My roommate at the time – one of said colleagues, and a good friend – told me afterwards that she remembered thinking, “She looks excited, and scared, and nervous, and exultant…I know it’s physically impossible, but is she pregnant?”
In a way, I was.
I had given birth to a book.
No longer was I an aspiring writer; I was a soon-to-be-published author, with contracts to sign and proofs to edit and covers to design.
Even more exciting, the publisher noted in the original email that I had left the story nicely open for a sequel, and did I have one planned?
Gatekeeper was about to become Gatekeeper I, and my first novel was already growing into a trilogy.
Though I have since parted ways with that publishing company, I will always be grateful for the part they played in my unfolding story. Affirmation has always been important to me (rather unhealthily important, I’m sad to say), and the great Author used this organization as a luminous vessel of affirmation for one little wordsmith with big dreams.
Someone else – a disinterested third party who was not related to me – liked my book.
Not only did they like it, but they wanted MORE.
That one email gave me the confidence to keep writing. My relationship with this company laid a strong foundation for my future career goals, and I am building on that foundation still. Each word I type is another stone, carefully chosen and – I hope – strategically placed.
May it become a house of welcome, rest, and inspiration for all who enter.
And, to that end, I leave you with this.
I wrote this poem on a winter twilight walk (“winter twilight walk”: a combination of some of my most favorite things) exactly four years ago TODAY. (Ha! I just realized that, looking at the date of the poem. ‘Tis a sign.) The weight of blessing I felt then is somewhat akin to the “whelmed-ness” occasioned by that first email from the publisher.
Hence, I share it with you now, hoping that it inspires you to pause and revel in the gift of this particular moment – wherever you are, dear Reader.
The Gift
And all this too?
Graceful barren branches encased in twilight’s flush
Stark winter’s revelation suffused by rosy hush
What shall I do?
You have given me already
Wants beyond my needing
Songs beyond my pleading
Gold beyond the silver my small thinking could design
And is this also mine?
A silent still surrender settles snow-like on my soul
Quieting my footsteps, assuaging summer’s toll
Unmasked, Desire’s poverty goes fleeing with a sigh
Vanished to the vast contentment of a winter sky
Such a lovely poem!! Such delight in your remembering. Thank you for making my day!!!
I love hearing how things come to pass. I love hearing the journey and the ups and downs. Yay for ground work being laid and for seasons of growth and birth into new seasons!