June is a month of chapter endings--and new beginnings. My wedding anniversary is in June, and with it comes the fond close of a year and the exciting prospect of another one beginning with my other half. This year, I hope to sell the manuscript (finally!) and move onto bigger and better things in my writing life. The year feels ripe for harvest, after a long period of frustration and waiting.

I personally believe that the best things in life are 1) worth waiting for and 2) usually come after a period of great discouragement and many obstacles. The path to publication is no different than any of the things in my life I have overcome. I have achieved the medically impossible. I don't give up. I am not a quitter. I am extremely strong-willed.

A couple of friends mentioned this to me over the past week or so, and I find it ironic that this stubborn streak of mine has turned out to be one of the most helpful character traits in my life. Many of my writing friends have given up on being published. They burned out, got frustrated with how long the process takes, how subjective it is. Some of them have quit writing altogether. I suppose being an artist of any kind--at least a paid artist--is not for the faint of heart. The persistent win out in the end, much like the tortoise beats the hare in the endurance race.

And so this month will be--a race of endurance, a race of balancing many aspects of life and taking everything in proper perspective. This month and the rest of this year will be spent preparing my new nest--and with God's help--perhaps preparing the book for its debut  to the public.

Here's hoping to a blessed and successful June!

The relocation thing has definitely taken a toll on my business and writing life, but I did finally get in a good developmental session with my new project. After picking up Téa Obreht's The Tiger's Wife once more and hoping to finish it this time, I am struck by how amazing a young writer she is.

The gift of language isn't taught; it is merely honed an cultivated. I'm convinced true literary greatness comes from the soul, and the greatest of it must be inherited by some divine birthright. Whether that literary greatness ever comes to complete fruition or success is another matter altogether, one in which I am still currently embroiled.

After four inexplicable manuscript losses at agencies, my manuscript still has only been read by one agent, who highly praised it and asked to see more work in the future, work that is more along the lines of magical realism. This new project, I suspect, may end up being that--even though the initial opening written during last year's NaNoWriMo quickly turned into a fantastical sort of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon kind of thing. Drawing it back to earth will be interesting.

Playing around with the narrative structure is fun, and this will be an interesting exploration of third person multiple POV, with flashes back and into a first person present storyline, much like Obreht's first novel.

Non-writing and writing friends alike are stymied by this strange blockade to my manuscript. Gremlins, perhaps, spiriting away electronic files and erasing to-do lists from agents' memories? At this point, I'm not ruling out anything.

One thing is certain, though. I know that the race is won by those who persevere. And twelve years of personal suffering before healing has taught me how to persevere. I will finish this race well.

And wouldn't you know it, the very weekend we decided we finally wanted to take the plunge, several other interested buyers came out of the woodwork and challenged our bid. We lost.

Yes, we're disappointed, because I had essentially stopped looking at properties for the past year because I was so sure God had appointed this parcel to be ours, in His time. And now that the time has come to finally move, the promised land is no longer in sight. It seems a hazy vision on the distant horizon, a faraway land of half-remembered dreams, people, and places.

The still, small voice inside is quiet for now, except for the ongoing refrain to "be still and know that I am God."

There is uncertainty, to be sure, but there is little anxiety. Sure, it's frustrating, but there is always hope for the future. I dream of a house on the rolling hills of Tuscany, where the golden fields shine like liquid honey in the warm afternoon light, and the soft Tuscan breeze, pungent with a hint of herbs and juniper, dances across my face like the caress of a lover.

We will find our sanctuary, somewhere in the middle of an oil and gas boom town. It's ironic, I know. But the trees still whisper good things, peaceful things out there. Havens of rest still exist up there, even so close to a metropolitan area. I have to believe it's possible. Or that God will make it possible soon.

2013 is the year of miracles. I can't wait to see what this one's going to look like.