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I need patience. I have none. Thoughts flitter in and out of my mind like fireflies against the window panes of the country house in June. Yes, I know. FOOTPRINTS ON THE HEART is receiving a magnificent bouquet of early 5-star reviews, but now when I click anxiously onto the site, there are only the ten that were there last week. Why haven't they spawned more and more of themselves? Folks tell me they have bought the book. Some say they have read it, and having read it, they love it. They will post a review. They will suggest it to their book club. Be patient! Be patient!
But I am almost 82 years old. I am living the opening chords of the dream I had for myself when I was nine years old. I knew in my heart that I would carve stories from nothing, I knew with such certainty that I would find the words to dazzle the world, that I would be a writer when I grew up.
I grew up and was blessed to live my life among writers, amplifying their work to the best of my ability. I loved their books. I loved my work. But now they fly on their own, and it is my turn. I am a writer, now. I am a novelist, but the fans and their laudatory words swirl about and vanish. Will you write another, they ask? I say I am waiting to see this first child of my mind reaching an amplified readership, being recognized by my peers. I may not have time for a second book. Mind or body may fail me. I am almost 82 years old and filled with an anxious energy to see my dream fulfilled. No time for patience. I need it NOW.