One year ago, after a mid-January, late-night discussion with my wife about my (lack of) fiction writing successes, I teetered somewhere between “am I just a glutton for punishment” and “maybe golf would be a saner hobby.” I used to golf a lot in high school. It’s not saner. And as for the punishment, my thick skin formed from previous rejections was finally starting to crack. Whatever salve I rubbed on it just stung. And not the good kind of sting, either, the kind that tells you the medicine’s working.

My wife stayed true to the argument she’s given me for the last dozen years: “It’s just not your time yet.” Young family, full-time job, coaching duties, Little League games, a beautiful part of the world we live in… a thousand things pulling us in a thousand directions. “It’s just not your time yet.”

One year ago today, my time arrived.

Through a fortuitous friend-of-a-friend turn of events, the synopsis for Wish and the first three chapters ended up in the hands of a New York Times best-selling author. “This looks good,” he told me over e-mail (I’m paraphrasing), “surprised you haven’t had more traction. Let me send it off to a few people.”

I received that e-mail on my lunch hour on January 31, 2013. That evening, the phone rang. I didn’t recognize the caller ID, so I figured it was a telemarketer and left it for the machine. Besides, the whole family was watching a really neat Disney short video on my computer. But as I walked out of the room, I heard someone leaving a message. Thinking that telemarketers don’t normally leave messages, I listened.

On the machine, agent Jeff Kleinman of Folio Literary Management – one of the “few people” my friend had sent them off to earlier in the day – was telling me that he had received the three chapters and he wanted the rest.

And there I stood. The call I had been waiting years to receive. And I screened it.

Actually, that’s not entirely accurate. Once I heard who it was, I held the phone trying to decide if I should beep in and cut him off. Fearing my voice would crack and I wouldn’t be able to talk, I took a breath and let him finish his message. My e-mail dinged shortly after as he followed-up, just as he’d promised on his message; and in the course of a few more e-mails that night, I answered some questions and sent him the rest of the book. The next morning, we talked, he sent the contract, and that was that. I had a literary agent. All in the span of about 24 hours. Years and years of patience and frustration and worry and perseverance and hope and rejection and determination… all either swept away or rewarded in 24 hours.

Not quite a year later (I think this past December), I received the Advance Reader Copy of Wish. From collecting cyberdust to sitting in my hands. From “why do I put myself and my family through this,” to my name on a cover. There are more surreal experiences, but I’m a bit hard-pressed to think of one right now.

And now, in the coming months, the final sprint to release day, May 1, and all that lies beyond.

I still can’t believe I screened that call.