I’m watching my son run.
My son runs like the wind. He pushes himself to the limit every day, practicing when he’s not feeling well, stretching when he feels strained, and pulling every last ounce of energy from the depths of his being in the final seconds of a race.
I want to live like that.
I want to write like that.
No matter what happens with this novel, I’ll know I’ve at the very least finished this race well. I’ve dug each sentence from my heart, turning and tweaking, stretching and straining, pouring over the text for years now. Yes, I’ve given it my best.
But there are more books left to edit.
More skills left to learn.
More books left to write.
More hope to pen for a weary, broken world.
So today, when my first novel releases, I am watching my son run.
I am grateful.
I am praying.
And I submit all my words, current and future, to The Author, that I may continue on in Him, and that I may finish strong and well whatever He has planned.