Amber Garza's Blog

I wrote my first novel in 2005 and shortly after finishing it I began querying agents. This began more than a decades-long journey of submissions and rejections. Along the way, though, I received a lot of positive feedback and helpful critiques. I honed my craft. Networked. Went to conferences. Joined forums. And, all the while, I kept writing. And I kept dreaming. Dreaming of that coveted book deal. Of book signings. Of seeing my novel on shelves. Of holding a finished book in my hand.
In 2011, on a holiday weekend no-less, I received 2 rejections and both were from agents who had requested pages and seemed genuinely interested. This was the first time I thought about quitting. Spoiler alert: it wouldn’t be the last. Instead of giving up, though, I made an equally bold decision to take control of my career and self publish. I had a young adult series I’d written and I followed Amanda Hocking’s model of releasing the books one right after the other, discounting the first one and then ascending from there.
The books did okay. Not enough to quit my dayjob, but enough to call myself a professional writer. And enough to keep me going. I released several more books and each one seemed to propel my career further ahead. By the seventh book (and a year and a half in), I was making decent money and I was able to quit my dayjob and write full time.
From 2012 - 2018, I released over thirty indie titles. Most of them were young adult and my most popular ones were sports romances. On my worst months I made a few hundred dollars and on my best months I made over $12k. I probably averaged around $3-4k.
But, as with any kind of publishing, there were ups and downs out of my control. I won’t go into all the details, but in 2016, my income took a significant hit and I could no longer afford to write full time. By 2018, it seemed I could barely afford to still self publish. This was the second time I thought about quitting.
I didn’t, though. Instead, I decided to once again pursue traditional publishing. I’d had an idea for a psychological thriller knocking around in my head for years, ever since I’d first learned of the other Amber Garza in my town. The random idea I had one day of “what if we met and wanted eachother’s lives?” had been percolating and I finally decided to sit down and write the book in 2018. That idea became WHEN I WAS YOU and I started pitching it to agents in January of 2019.
Prior to self publishing, I always struggled to pitch my novels; to come up with a strong hook and opening paragraph for my query letter. But I think the biggest issue was that I always queried with the agent and publisher in mind. That’s honestly how I came up with my ideas too. I was always trying to write what I thought agents were looking for, not what I wanted to write.
But self publishing taught me to think about my audience. To writeto my reader and to pitch to my reader. Self publishing taught me the art of writing great back-cover copy and great hooks. And, quite honestly, it taught me how to write a great book.
I used this knowledge and experience to write the log line and opening paragraph of my query letter and it worked! I sent my query letter to around 40 agents and I received 12 requests for the full, one even came within 10 minutes of me sending the email. From those 12 requests, 6 agents offered representation.
Furthermore, within two months of signing with my agent WHEN I WAS YOU went to auction in the US (resulting in a six-figure deal) and the UK, sold in a significant pre-empt in France, to seven other countries and to film.
I hear a lot of stories of authors getting deals because of their enormous success in self publishing, and while that’s not exactly my story, I do credit my years of writing, honing my craft and learning the art of the pitch as my reason for finally realizing my dream.
The moral of the story is that if you want to get published, write what you love. Write what you want to read. And then pitch it like you would want to hear it.
Think about the books you are drawn to. Think about the two-sentence pitches you hear online that make you race to buy a book or the back cover copy you read in a store that gets you to put that book in your cart. And write with that in mind.
Querying requires patience and grit, but I believe in you. You got this!

The other morning, I rolled over in bed to find what I thought was a lump of poop on my pillow but upon further inspection realized was a hairball. A gross, sticky, matted hairball. One I had slept on all night. Horrified, I leapt into the shower and vigorously scrubbed my face, eyes and hair clean. Despite all that effort, for hours afterward I convinced myself I was going to get some horrible infection and go blind. No, I’m not dramatic at all.

When I texted my best friend to tell her what had transpired, she responded with, “Oh, my god. This is exactly like your book.”

And she was right.

My recent release BETTER TO EAT YOU WITH opens with the main character coughing up a literal hairball. My life, it seemed, was imitating my art that morning. Although, let’s be clear: I did not cough up a hairball. My cat did.

As an author who writes dark, psychological thrillers and, most recently, body horror, the last thing I want to do is experience the scenes in my novels in real life. But the truth is that all my novels have been derived from something in my real life.

My debut thriller WHEN I WAS YOU is about two women in the same town with the same name who become obsessed with one another. This idea came to me when I learned of another Amber Garza in my town. We’ve gone to the same gym, same doctor, same stores. We’ve circled each other for more than a decade but have never met. But the question “what if we met and wanted each other’s lives?” eventually became this novel.

Similarly, when my daughter was in middle school, I dropped her off at a friend’s house and when I went to pick her up a strange woman answered the door and had no idea what I was talking about. I panicked for a moment before realizing I was, indeed, at the wrong house. It was a tract home, and they all looked the same. But my sophomore thriller WHERE I LEFT HER sprung from the question: what if I had been at the right house?

The idea for my debut horror novel BETTER TO EAT YOU WITH came about in a much different way. I haven’t technically experienced anything in that book, thank God. I’m not losing my hair or teeth or *slight spoiler alert* throwing up body parts. But, in a much more symbolic way, I have experienced everything I wrote in that book. In early motherhood, my mind and body were stripped away from me, leaving behind nothing but an exhausted carcass. I’ve experienced gaslighting by medical professionals. I’ve experienced extreme loneliness, grief and pain. I’ve loved in a way that’s hurt. And I’ve been a well that gives and gives until there’s nothing left. Until I’m bone dry.

I first had the seedling of an idea for BETTER TO EAT YOU WITH back when I was knee deep in caring for small children, but I didn’t write the book until they were adults. I think that was not only good, but necessary. I have a perspective now that I didn’t back then. I know the hard seasons of childrearing pass, and, honestly, in the blink of an eye.

But when you’re in the thick of it, mama, I know it’s hard. All-consuming. And, yes, also lovely.

This book isn’t relegated only to those who have experienced motherhood. I think anyone who has loved someone else, cared for someone else, has had a mother or anyone who just enjoys a good scare, will like the book.

But I don’t think any of you would like waking up to find a nasty hairball on your pillow. So, buy my book and make me feel better!

Thanks, friends.

On January 5th, just a few short months ago, I wrote a blog post with my one-word theme for this year. The word was fulfillment. If you read that post, forgive me for the overview. But in a nutshell, I’d shared about the struggles I’d experienced in my writing career over the past two years. I turned 41 in December and I was disappointed in where I was in my career. My book sales had taken a nose dive a couple of years ago and they weren’t showing any signs of shooting back up. I shared in that blog post how I truly believed things would get better on 2019 for my career. I had no idea back then how true those words were and how quickly it would happen.

In 2018, I wrote a psychological thriller. One that had been rattling around inside of my head for a long time. It was dark and creepy in the best way and I was so proud of it. I decided that with this book I wouldn’t self-publish, but instead try to land a Big 5 publisher.

So on January 22, 2019, I started querying agents with the project. In my fifteen years of writing, I’ve queried agents and publishers so many times I honestly didn’t have high expectations. I had a list of 100 of the top agents/agencies in NY and I planned to work my way down the list and then start a new one if need be. I told myself I was in it for the long haul, even if it took years. That’s how much I believed in this book.

By mid- February, I had an agent (What?!!) And not just any agent – an incredible agent at my dream agency. I queried 49 agents, and ended up with 5 offers of representation. It was all very surreal. Almost too good to be true. I pinched myself a lot.

My agent began pitching publishers toward the end of March after we edited the manuscript and got it in tip-top shape.

On April 4th the book went to auction in the US. That night I chose my amazing editor, who I get to work with at least 2 books on! (Again, what??!!) One to release Spring 2020, the next one Spring 2021. I’m over the moon excited!

Here is the announcement from Publisher’s Marketplace!

[image error]

 

If you had told me back in January that in just 3 short months I’d be here, I wouldn’t have believed you. It’s all been a whirlwind. But even though it’s moved so fast – querying in January to signing with an agent in February to taking a deal in April – my career actually had a very slow start.

I wrote my first book fifteen years ago. Back then the chick lit genre was huge. Women’s fiction sections of bookstores were filled with pastel colored books, humorous stories about quirky women. My first three books were chick lit. The first one garnered a lot of attention from editors and agents, but in the end chick lit tanked and so did my dreams of publishing one of those books.

So I shelved them and spent the next few years trying to figure out my niche. I took writing classes and workshops, got involved in online writer’s forums, went to critique groups, entered contests, read books on the craft of writing, read A LOT.

Then in 2011, I wrote my first young adult series. At that point lots of my friends were self publishing and doing well with it. So in 2012, I followed suit. Within a year, I’d made enough to quit my job and write full time. I did very well with my YA romances for the next few years. But then the market shifted and my income started to go up and down in a way that I could no longer count on. So in 2017, I went back to work. I kept trying to make my writing happen, though, but felt increasingly disheartened.

Until now!

So, while this has all moved fast, it’s actually been fifteen years in the making. Richard Bach said, “A professional writer is an amateur who didn’t quit.”

I went back and forth on whether to even blog about this, but in the end I decided everyone likes a motivational story, right? I know that over the past 15 years I’ve devoured every blog post and article I could read about somebody making it. Sometimes when we are in the thick of it with rejection, it’s the inspirational stories that keep us going. If that’s you, I pray my story keeps you going!

Pursue your dreams. Whatever they are. It won’t come easy. In fact, it will probably be really hard most of the time. But in the end, I promise it will be worth it.

I’ll end with the lyrics to a song by one of my favorite bands.

Joseph – Blood and Tears

We’ll say it wasn’t easy

No, it was never easy

And when we look back

They’ll wonder how we got here

Tell them how we got here

It was blood and tears

Blood and tears

Blood and tears

It’s how we got here

 

My new year’s blog posts have varied over the years. Sometimes I’ve listed out my goals or my writing plan. Sometimes I’ve told you an area I need breakthrough. This year I decided to choose a one-word theme for my year.

And that one-word theme is:

[image error]

 

Last year in my new year’s post, I said that I was hoping for breakthrough in the area of identity. I thought I knew how that would look. I assumed by the end of the year, I’d be all zen, content and self-assured.

But that’s not what happened. In 2018, old passions and dreams resurfaced. I was given opportunities I hadn’t had in years. It should have made me feel renewed. Revived.

It didn’t.

It left me restless. Desperate. Discontent.

I ended 2018 more frustrated than I’ve been in years. Last week, I turned 41. I honestly don’t know how that happened. Yesterday I was 21, dreaming of one day being on Broadway and then when I aged out of that, I’d spend the rest of my life writing bestselling novels. And today I’m 41, wondering what I’ve done with my last twenty years.

It’s not like I’ve been sitting on my ass. I raised two children. I’ve written around 40 novels. I’ve sang professionally. I’ve spoken at schools and churches and women’s groups.  I’ve impacted people’s lives both online, in reader’s groups, at signings and one-on-one. I’ve done a lot locally. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished.

But it’s not what I thought I’d do.  It’s not what I’m capable of.

If you’ve followed me a long time, you might think this is all about the downfall of the writing market and how drastically that affected my life. And I do think it contributes to this feeling. The financial hit my family has taken, is rough. Trust me. But honestly, this goes deeper than that.

I sacrificed a lot to raise my children. I put my life on hold. And I don’t regret it. My kids are my hearts. My loves. I’m so proud of them.

But somewhere along the line, I lost me.

I lost years when I could have been pursuing the things I wanted out of life. Now the world is open to me once again. My kids are grown. Living their own lives. And my fear is that it’s too late for me. That I’ll never be all the things I wanted to be. That I’ll never accomplish my lifelong dreams and goals.

The definition of fulfillment is:

the achievement of something desired, promised, or predicted.



or:








2. satisfaction or happiness as a result of fully developing one’s abilities or character.

Truth is, I don’t believe my dreams are dead.

It wasn’t a coincidence that the year I ask for breakthrough in the area of identity is the year God reminded me of what I’m good at. I’ve had more opportunities to lead this year. More opportunities to sing. To act. I think these opportunities were reminders.

I’m creative. A leader. Smart. Musical. Artistic. A writer. A lover of people. Compassionate. Kind.

This is who I am. It’s who I was created to be.

I’m also flighty. Unorganized. At times incredibly selfish and self-involved. Overly talkative. A little ditzy. Klutzy. Can’t do math to save my life.

I’m very aware of how not perfect I am. I know what I’m not good at.

But this year, I’m focusing on what I am good at. I’m focusing on fulfillment.

So, here I come 2019. Watch out.

I’m done sitting on the sidelines. Time is moving fast and I’m making up for lost time. This year, I will write more, push myself more, put myself out there. I’ll sing more, lead more, advocate for myself more, prove myself more. I’ll act more, I’ll study more, I’ll  hone my craft.

So…I may not sleep. ha ha!

But I can guarantee next year’s post will sound a whole lot different than this one.

What are you hoping for in the new year? Comment below.

[image error]

 

 

I’ve been well acquainted with fear all my life. Since childhood, it’s been whispering in my ear, telling lies and stories. It’s caused worry to enter my mind, and anxiety to rise up within me like a tornado.

I can’t remember the first time I felt fear, but I do know that it intensified after my grandma’s death and after my parents’ divorce. It would always rise up when something happened to me that was out of my control. Once fear took root, it would turn to worry, which could lead to ongoing anxiety.

For most of my life I accepted this as part of me.

I’m a worrier. That’s who I am. I’ve always been like this.

I’d brush it off like it was no big thing. Like it was a personality trait, same as having a sense of humor or great people skills. I acted as if it was something I couldn’t get rid of even if I wanted to.

For the most part, I dealt with it in silence. I’ve been a Jesus follower most of my life. I have faith. I believe. I’ve seen miracles. I’ve experienced miracles. I’m a mom. Wife. Author. Leader.

There was no way I was going to admit to everyone around me that my mind was a hot mess.

In 2013, I got sick. This began a season filled with medical appointments, tests, surgeries, infections, misdiagnoses. And in that time, the fear that I’d kept hidden for my entire life rose up and consumed me.

It took over.

It owned me.

And hiding it was no longer an option.

The next few years I was enslaved to it. But I also learned a lot. About God and myself. And in the end, I found freedom.

I’m a romance author. A storyteller. I’ve never wanted to write nonfiction. I’m not a pastor or teacher. I’ve never felt like an authority or expert on anything. But lately I’ve felt a stirring in my heart to share my story, and not in fictionalized form as I’ve done with other things I’ve gone through.

If you’ve followed my blog for any length of time, you’ve been with me in this fear journey, and I thank you for sticking with me. Now you can read the entire story…

AVAILABLE NOW!!

[image error]

 

My daughter called me a workaholic.

Not in a mean way.  A statement of fact. Not accusatory.

The other night I popped on the computer for a “few minutes,” which of course turned into way longer.  I apologized, telling Kayleen I just needed to finish up some “work” things.

She laughed and said, “Yep. I figured. You’re always working.”

 “I’m not always working,” I countered.

“Mom, you’re a workaholic,” she said.

“You think I’m a workaholic?” I asked her.

Her eyes bugged out. “Seriously? Yes! You’re always working.”

I apologized. She waved off the apology, saying it didn’t bother her. That from me she’s learned to work hard for what she wants.

But I wondered: At what cost?

When I was a little kid I wanted to be two things when I grew up: An author and a professional singer.

You know what people did when I told them my dreams? Laughed. Told me to get more realistic goals.

I’m competitive. Rebellious.

Their response only made me work harder. Want it more.

And I had it. The writing part at, least. I’d caught it.

My dream.

And then I’d lost it.

Kind of.

The last couple of years its felt out of reach. Like water slipping through my fingers, sliding across my flesh, slippery, and impossible to grip.

There are days when I think about it. Fantasize about it.

Quitting.

Letting go.

Resting.

But then I feel sick.

Sad.

Restless.

I can’t stop.

Writing is in my blood.

It pumps through my veins.

Its tangled around my heart.

And it makes me work hard. Too hard.

All day.

Late into the night.

Early mornings.

Stolen moments.

When I’m watching TV with my daughter, sitting outside with my husband, having a glass of wine with friends, I feel it’s pull. The writing/marketing/rat race drawing me back.

I’m struck with guilt for taking a break.

I should be working.

I need to keep going….

Going….

Going…

I’ve come too far to stop now.

But have I?

I don’t know.

I’m tired.

Like a battered wife. Beaten down, but still in love.

My heart beats for the written word.

Prose sing over me, lyrical and haunting, a siren song.

Characters speak, their voices loud and insistent.

Stories reside in my heart, causing my pulse to race and my head to spin.

I’ll continue letting them capture my mind, bleed from my fingertips. Keep releasing them into the hands of my readers.

And pray one day it will all be worth it….

[image error]

For years, I woke up every morning prepared to fight. My opponent was fear. And, sadly, most days fear won.

But about a year ago I had huge breakthrough in this area. I don’t want to say that I beat fear for good. I do have the occasional “off day.” But I did take him down. He definitely doesn’t have the same hold on me that he once had.

A few months ago, I was here on my website going through my old blog posts. As I read all the posts starting with my first one on fear all the way to my last, I was astounded at how far God has brought me in this area. It wasn’t something that happened over night. It took time. God was gracious in this journey, piecing out truth after truth until I could see the big picture.

I wanted to write my story down. At first it was just for me to see it all on paper. To understand all that God had taught me at a deeper level. But now I want to share it with you. Many of my readers have shared that they also deal with fear and anxiety. My prayer is that in reading my story, you will find hope and healing.

At the very least, you’ll know you’re not alone.

[image error]

PEACE OUT: How I kicked fear to the curb

Release date: September 19

Cover: Emily Wittig of Wittig Designs and Photography

In 2013, Amber Garza was living her dream as a full-time romance author. She was happy, healthy and hopeful about her future. Until an unexplained illness caused her to spiral into years of fear, depression, anxiety and worry.

Fear and worry were not strangers to her. She’d wrestled with them her entire life, but never to this extent. It caused her to doubt God. Her faith. Her beliefs.

But eventually, she gained a peace she’d never experienced before. She’d been searching for assurance that God would heal her physically, but God wanted to give her a deeper assurance.

Told in stories, reflections and blog posts, PEACE OUT is a story of redemption, unfailing love and breakthrough.

When I was a kid I used to love going to the library to check out books. I went at least twice a month, leaving with an armful of books to read until I came back to return them and get more. There was something magical about being surrounded by books, knowing that any one of them could be mine with a simple swipe of my library card. With the amount of books I read, there was no way my parents could afford to buy me all of them, so it was the perfect solution.

[image error]

 

I don’t go to the library as often now, but I do have Windell (my kindle) and I have a Kindle Unlimited Membership. Don’t start throwing stones yet. Hear me out. I pay $10/month for unlimited borrows (up to 10 at a time). And I discover a ton of great authors this way. I still read as much as I did when I was a kid – several books (or more) a week, and the KU membership allows me to do that.

But here’s the thing: As awesome as this is for me as a consumer, I sometimes feel guilty about it as an author.

Before KU rolled out, I was selling tens of thousands of ebooks upon release. Now I sell hundreds, if I’m lucky. Sure, I get borrows, and some of the time those make up for my lost sales, but sometimes they don’t. The truth is that, while subscriptions services do help authors/artists in some ways with exposure and stuff, they also hurt us.

I’ve wanted to be an author since I was a little girl roaming her local library every weekend. Words are my first love. Descriptions flow through my veins. Dialogue makes me giddy. Characters talk in my head. Plot holes keep me up at night. New plot ideas wake me each morning.

There’s nothing else I want to do with my life.

I get that computers and smart phones have taken over. I’ve spent so much time trying to fight against the current. To turn back to how things used to be, but I’m exhausted. I need to stop. Stop swimming. Stop struggling. It’s time to climb out of the water, dry off, lie on the beach and take a few deep breaths. Maybe borrow a book, or listen to some soothing songs on my Itunes account.

I’m a hypocrite if I support all of these things as a consumer, but not as an artist.

It’s the way of the world.

So, I’m embracing it.

Recently, I’ve even started writing for an app called RADISH. I love the team there. They’re helpful and encouraging, and I think it’s an exciting way to share my work. It’s a free app you can download on any device from your app store. I have a free story  and a premium story. Premium stories costs coins you can purchase or earn on the site (first 3 chapters are free though). The stories are uploaded as episodes, just like your favorite TV shows. Each episode ends with a writer’s note. Readers also have the option to engage by liking the episodes.

[image error]

Sometimes I hear people say that no one reads anymore. That books are a thing of the past, but I honestly don’t think they will ever be obsolete. There will always be people who read. I can’t imagine continuing to live in a world where people don’t. How sad would that be? But I also understand that it may sometimes look a little differently, especially for the newer generation.

[image error]

And I’m alright with that.

So, go ahead. Join that subscription service. Download that app.

Just don’t stop reading.

Okay?

[image error]

 

 

I went into high school in 1992. My teen years were filled with note passing, talking on my phone in my room, and listening to CDs on my discman. But now I’m the mom of two teenagers. They listen to itunes on their phones and Bluetooth speakers, they’re constantly on their cell phones, and they’ve never passed a note in their life. I find myself saying to them often, “You have no idea how different my high school experience was.”

One day I was thinking about how weird it would be for a teenager alive now to suddenly wake up in the nineties. How would they survive without their phones and internet? Would things be better for them or worse?

I honestly didn’t love high school. Sometimes I think about how grateful I am that we didn’t have phones and social media. It might have made things worse for me. But other times I think it might have made it better for someone like me. I sing, I play music, I write, I believe in myself, and I’m not afraid to put myself out there. For someone like me, maybe having outlets online for all of those things would’ve helped make my teen years better. Who knows?

And that’s how ALL THAT AND A BAG OF CHIPS came about. I wanted to explore this thought. To see how it would play out.

[image error]

I loved writing this story in two parts. I actually thought the nineties portion would be easier for me, but it wasn’t. When Remy was in 1993, I kept writing dialogue that was heavy in today’s teen slang. So I had to pull up a tab of nineties slang and keep it open on my computer while writing. I guess I’m more relevant than I thought! Haha

But Remy came easily. Her voice. Her thoughts. Her wants. Her desires. And I liked her right off the bat.

Nick was also so fun to write. I felt him distinctly from the beginning. He was a great guy, but also multi-faceted. There were a lot of layers to him, and a definite struggle to find himself. I appreciated the realness of him.

My daughter helped me with some of the plot points, so if you liked the ending you can thank her.

I hope you enjoyed this story. And I hope you fell in love with Nick right along with Remy.

 

[image error]

When Remy fell asleep last night, it was 2018. This morning she woke up in 1993.

She knows it’s her fault. Over the weekend, a picture of her boyfriend kissing another girl was splashed all over social media. Talk about epic humiliation. It made her wish she could go back to a time when there were no smartphones.

But she never imagined it would come true.

Now everything is different, including her friendship with her neighbor Nick. He’d never noticed her before. But now he’s looking at her in a new way. Almost like he thinks she’s all that and a bag of chips.

But will he feel that way when they return to 2018?

To snag your copy, click here.

There’s a line in the movie ELF where Buddy says, “I just like to smile. Smiling’s my favorite.” Not only do I find the line hilarious, but I totally relate. Smiling’s my favorite too. I believe in the power of a smile. In general, I’m a super positive person. It takes a lot to get me down. I’m pretty scrappy. I’ll pull myself out of any bad situation and search for that sliver of hope, no matter how tiny.

[image error]

But sometimes life is hard. Like legit hard. And that sliver of hope becomes almost impossible to see. That’s the season I’m in. And I’ve been in it for around 2 years. Most days, I hold tightly to whatever scrap of hope I can wrap my fingers around, and I cling to it like a lifeline. But days like today, I feel only air. Weightless. Empty. Nothing to grasp onto.

My family is in a season of waiting. A weird in-between place. A  place not unlike the waiting room at a hospital. We’re confused at what’s taking so long, and we’re frustrated that the nurse won’t call us back. Doesn’t she see us suffering? Doesn’t she think we’re an important case? Doesn’t she sense our desperation? 

If this was the first time my family had experienced this awful waiting period, that would be one thing. But for us this has been some bizarre cycle. We have a few bad years, a couple good years, and then we’re back here again. Often, I wonder what I’m missing. What lesson I’m not learning that I need to.  

 I trust God. I believe in his promises. I know the things he’s spoken over my family. I know the dreams he’s planted in our hearts. But I have no idea when I’ll see them. And the waiting period sucks. This in- between period of praying and seeking and crying out is exhausting.

I’m tired.

Spent.

Over it.

[image error]

And I’m not saying any of this for pity. If you know me at all, you know this is how I process. Getting this on paper gets it out of my head. It helps me move forward. Same way I quiet my characters when they won’t shut up.

Also, I’m betting some of you are in this season. Waiting on something that isn’t happening.

Truth is, I don’t know what to say to help you. I want to have some super insightful, profound nugget of wisdom to hand you. But my palms are empty. My mind is a swirling mess of tangles and knots. I got nothin’.

Except this….You’re not alone. I’m in this waiting period with you. And I’ll do my best to make the waiting bearable. We can read magazines and tell stories to distract one another.  Even when I’m sad, I’ll tell you jokes and I promise you that you’ll laugh, if only because I will and my laugh is contagious. Also, it’s loud. Maybe too loud. Ha! But who likes a quiet waiting room, right?

There’s a song called TRAINWRECK by James Arthur, and it speaks to my soul.

In the chorus he says,

Unbreak the broken

Unsay these spoken words

Find hope in the hopeless

Pull me out of the trainwreck

Unburn the ashes

Unchain the reactions

I’m not ready to die, not yet

Pull me out of the trainwreck

Pull me out, pull me out, pull me out

 This is the cry of my heart. That God will pull me out. That he’ll pull you out.

In this waiting room, I’ll stare at that door with you, anxious and hopeful that it will open. And it will. It has to.

When it does, I’ll hold your hand. And we’ll walk through together. We’ll be braver. Stronger. Prepared. Ready.