So, then, to every man his chance – to every man, regardless
of his birth, his shining, golden opportunity…

—Thomas Wolfe
______________

Well, I’m back. Way sooner than I figured, back when I last left you to head out on that long slog, to see if the next book would come. Because on that long slog, a little side road popped up, and there was no choice but to take it. So I did. And somehow, strangely, it brought me right back here to the blog. To tell you of how it was.

Nope, I haven’t turned in any new writing to Tyndale. Carol hasn’t read a page of the stuff I’ve been working on, for the sequel. Not even a word. Because it’s still way too rough. Because it’s not ready. And I won’t send it until it is. I have been working at it, and, well, sitting there and staring at it. Trying to “feel” my way in. Probably a bit too intensely. I got a rough draft cobbled together a few weeks after my last post. Sketched out what I needed to write, for a few chapters, in different places. And somehow, I even found a good thread or two, to develop. But it never broke loose. Somehow, it all seemed so elusive, so hard. The harder I concentrated, the harder I tried, the more my brain froze up, seemed like. Each day that rolled by was one more day gone. And the inner tension escalated. I’m losing time, here. I have to find it somehow, the voice that will speak my story. And still, day followed day, and not much was getting written, in actual word count.

I badly needed a break, a diversion. Something to get my head cleared. And then, last week, events abruptly took a turn of their own. Seemed like something or someone was nudging me. Stop. Don’t freak out. Take this side road instead. And check out a spectacular view from a new place.

Early last week, it all started with an email from someone at the Tyndale marketing department. Good news, it proclaimed cheerfully. On March 1st, Amazon will slash the cost of Growing Up Amish, Kindle version only, to a mere $3.99. And push it hard. Publicize it. The Tyndale email claimed I should be excited. This was a big deal. Every month, Amazon hand-selects one hundred books to promote. And my book was somehow included in this elite group.

I’d never heard of Amazon’s monthly “hundred books” promotion. But I thought it sounded cool. Amazon knows how to market, I knew that much. But a hundred books? Seemed like a lot, to push out there, even at a discount. And I checked my eBook stats. Growing Up Amish has been floating around lately at the respectable ranking of anywhere between 3500 and 5000 or so. Out of a million eBooks. Maybe, with the discount and the marketing push, it might creep back up there. I hoped it might even climb to 1000 or so, and maybe stay there for a while.

Thursday morning, March 1st. I checked my Amazon ranking. Right at 4500. All right. We’ll keep an eye on it, throughout the day. At noon, I checked again. Amazingly, that 4500 had dropped to around 2000. Wow. Amazon’s machine must be working. They’re probably sending emails to anyone who ever clicked on an Amish fiction book. Hey. Look at this. The real story for $3.99. Close to nothing. Check it out. And by the time I left the office at five, I was at 727. Under that 1000 marker I’d hoped for. In less than half a day. And the cautious thought edged into my head. This could be big.

Way back in the day, last summer, when my book crept onto the very bottom of the New York Times eBook bestseller list, it lurked for days and weeks at around 200 to 300 in the Amazon rankings. And Carol told me at the time that it sold around a thousand copies a week, to make the bestseller list. At that ranking, 200 to 300, it had sold a thousand copies a week. The highest ranking I ever saw back then was 133. And it stayed there very briefly. It might have crept a few notches higher, but I didn’t catch it.

And suddenly, I started imagining things. What if the book reached that plateau again? What if? That would be wild. Totally wild. And on Thursday evening, March 1st, as the book rocketed up past 300, I felt it really could happen. It could.

Turned out I hadn’t seen nothing yet. On Friday, the book kept pushing its way up. And up and up. 200. Then it hovered around 150 for a while. In all of Amazon eBooks. The hundred and fiftieth slot out of a million eBooks. Wild stuff. And still the number climbed steadily. 125. Then 113. Then 106. The highest I’d ever seen it. Maybe I could break into the top one hundred in all of Amazon. How cool would that be?

That evening, I clicked “refresh” now and again, on the Amazon page for my eBook. Nope. Just hung right in there at 106. It’ll probably drop now, I figured. That close to the top 100, but still no cigar. And then, just before 9 PM, I refreshed the link again. And the magical number leaped right out at me from the screen. 91. Number 91 in all Kindle books on Amazon. The top hundred. I’d made it. I stared in ecstasy. And disbelief. And then I snapped a picture of the screen and posted it to Facebook. The top one hundred. I’d made it. In the second day of Amazon’s March promotion. Just unbelievable.

And it turned out, again, that I hadn’t seen nothing yet. This time, my book was heading out and up to join the big boys. I posted the link with promotional sale information on Facebook. My friends went haywire with support, webbing the link on and out into the ether. Word of mouth. Buy this book. $3.99. That’s nothing. By Sunday morning, it broke into the top fifty. By Monday morning, it held at 33. And each day it crept up a bit. Fluctuated some, sure. But always jumped up past previous numbers. 22. Then 27. Then 21. On Wednesday morning, and again on Thursday morning, it broke into the top twenty at number 18. The 18th most sold eBook on all of Amazon.

That’s wild territory. Wild and beautiful. Rarefied air, any way you look at it. I stand here in awe. This is a place I will likely never see again. The book might plummet in the rankings at any time, but no one can ever take it from me that it’s been where it’s been. Even the Tyndale people seem mildly amazed. And perhaps just a little astounded.

And I think back to those days when I was struggling, writing Growing Up Amish. Intensely, frantically at times, as the next monthly deadline relentlessly closed in. In despair, at other times, when I could not find the words to speak what was in my heart. Somehow, I ended up chatting with God in those moments, now and then. Informally, just talking, reminding Him. This is your book. You can take it where you will. Do with it what you want. Just help me get it said right.

I believe He heard me, and did just that. Helped me get it said right. I really do. There are not a dozen words I would change in the entire book, even if I could. I credit my Tyndale editors, too, of course. A lot. But that was a given from the start. It was a miracle they were even involved at all.

And I feel a bit like I felt back then, except for the despair part. Here on this wild and beautiful road, where I see my book flirting with the highest rankings on the internet. This is your book, God. I gave it to you before it was even written. Take it where you will. Now. Next week. Next month. Whenever. Wherever. I don’t know what the future holds. You do. Bless the path of this book.

And here, at this place, I can only stand and marvel in gratitude. The windows of heaven have opened and poured forth blessings such as I could not possibly have imagined.

All right. That felt good, to write the old blog again. I’m thinking I’ll do that now and again, regardless of how the other writing’s going. It’s good to come back to where it all started, and stay connected to my readers. It helps get my brain unstuck. And this is a safe place, where I can be myself. So I’ll plan on posting once a month, at least, sometimes more. Depends on how often I can fit it in.

And now, it’s back to those rough drafts. Maybe with a fresh perspective. Maybe not. In some ways, my head seems clear. In others, it’s more fogged up than ever. We’ll see how it goes.

A couple of links before closing. The link to my eBook on Amazon, for those who want to check it out. Buy it, for crying out loud. For every Kindle in your home. It’s less than a latte at Starbucks.

And finally, the audio version of Growing Up Amish is now available for preorder. It’s being released on April 1st. I’m eagerly awaiting my copy. Should be here any day now.

There will be hard battles ahead, sure there will be.
And more treacherous, difficult roads. The dragons
of fear and doubt will lurk, as they always do….That’s
just part of life as it has been, and life as it will be.

—Ira Wagler: Inside the Shining City
______________________________

I had it coming, I suppose. When I wrote of my eagerness for whatever might come, in the year-end blog. Maybe I was feeling bold. Or maybe bored. I should have known, though. Be careful what you wish for, because it just might sneak up and slap you right up ‘side the head.

I’ve heard from a lot of readers. When are you writing the sequel to your book? But last year was so intense, so busy, that I didn’t think about it much. What would come would come. Then in early November, an email from my agent, Chip MacGregor. A few bits of news about this and that. At the very end, a short paragraph. We need to be talking soon about where you might want to go next with your writing. Tyndale is making some noises about another book.

And there it was. Another book. I sure hadn’t been out there pushing for one. Too much going on, and I didn’t really feel quite ready yet. Maybe I was just scared, I don’t know. But I answered Chip. Let’s talk about it after the holidays.

It seemed like going on from the end of the first book was the natural thing, after I thought about it. But I didn’t want to throw something out there just because the market’s hot right now. If I can’t write it and feel it, the narrative won’t work, because the reader won’t feel it either. And besides, the second book about as often as not just flat out flops. The first book is the one you HAVE to write, the second one not so much, I think that’s how it goes a lot of times. So there’s no guarantee of anything. Especially for a relatively unknown writer. Somewhat known now, but not that well, not compared to many others. The literary landscape out there is strewn with the wreckage of many a failed second effort from authors far better known than I could ever hope to be.

And I tried to imagine what it would be, to write a sequel. I’ve always shied away from some pieces of the past, from the time right after I left the Amish. There are hard places back there. And deep. A lot of other great writing fodder too, don’t get me wrong. The journey of a raw ex-Amish youth feeling his way into a whole new world. After breaking from his roots for good. Breaking into the English world. And loss, too, there was that. The thread of loss that almost universally affects those who break from the Amish culture. Loss of relationships, of family, of ancient cultural ties. Loss of my father’s blessing. And more. There’s lots of good material there, if I can get it told right. But always, from here, the hard things seemed more frightening to confront. To relive.

Because they are. A few weeks back, I wrote a few pages to show the Tyndale people what was in my heart. And it came down as I knew it would. The words roiled out of me in black torrents of the deepest melancholy I have faced in years. Maybe ever. I went down under. Way down under. I wrote it like it came. And then I sent it off.

After absorbing my writing for a week or so (and recoiling, I’m sure), Carol Traver called me one evening after work, at the office. After everyone else had left at my end. My insides were a tough knot of turmoil. And she firmly talked me back from the abyss. Don’t go back there, that deep. It’s too dark to see; you can’t even speak your message. What is your message? Let’s see if you can say it better. Those weren’t her specific words to me, necessarily. But that’s what I heard her saying.

We talked for quite a while about a lot of things, always circling back to my writing. And gradually, the tension drained from me, the turmoil dissipated. Right there, as we were talking. And I worked my way back. The fog in my head began to clear. In the next day or two, it lifted.

Carol is right. I can say it better. Write it better.

I’d failed the first test, though. When I had the chance to show her what I had in just a few pages. Flipped right off the deep end, I did. Maybe it was just as well to get that out of the way, right up front. But now, she needed something more. Some real writing, some real chapters, that I would submit in the manuscript. We talked about it, and it felt OK. Four chapters. Almost random, not quite. Some sort of opening. And a couple of places that are important to me. And what I see as the message of the book. I grumbled a bit. Come on, Carol. Do I really have to? Now? Immerse myself into those years from long ago? But I knew that what she was asking for made sense. I might as well write out some real stuff so Tyndale can see if what I have is what they want. And to figure out for myself if I can even get it told.

Growing Up Amish was my shining city on a hill. My impossible goal, my dream, my vision. And it was more than I could have imagined. The way it all came together, the way it all worked out. It was a triumphant and joyful thing. Pretty much miraculous. That accomplishment can never be taken from me.

And now I walk from the gates of that shining city. I will never return to this place. Once you set out on another journey, it’s impossible to return. It’s like going home again. You can’t, because everything has changed. Succeed or fail, you can’t go back to the way it was.

After the first leg of this journey, maybe a month, probably more like two, I’ll stop and rest a bit. And I’ll be back here, to tell you of how it was. And where the next destination might be. I’ll tell you when I know, one way or the other. If the sequel doesn’t work out with Tyndale, some other door will open. It might well be a door right back to this blog, a full circle back to the place where it all began. I don’t know, and don’t need to know until I get there.

Saying it as I saw it, from where my heart was when I wrote it, that’s all I’ve ever tried to do. In a New York Times bestseller, and right here on this blog. The platform makes no difference. Pretty much every post on this blog could just as well have been written in some form in a journal, had I ever taken the time and trouble to keep one. And in those hidden, unread pages, my voice would have been the same.

I’ve traveled long enough and far enough to learn to walk by faith as much possible, given my restless spirit and driven nature. Faith sometimes small as a mustard seed, seems like. But there. And when the noise gets too loud around me, that’s when I return and hold on to the simple core truth that the Lord is good. He always was. He always will be. And He will always show the right way to those who cry out to Him with even a mustard seed of faith.

I am ready for one more trek, one more slog into some rough terrain. I’m calm but alert, and yeah, a little tense and nervous too, as I approach a new door of entry from a new direction, on a path not seen before. And prepare to walk through that door and face and relive a whole lot of memories from way back. Memories of loss and turmoil, more than a few memories of more than a little loss. And memories, too, of life and joy and the anchor of quiet faith. Of moving forward into a new world of possibilities and opportunities such as I had never known. A world I embraced with hungry longing and desire.

It’s all there, if I can pull it together and fit it together in a way that works. And write it from my heart. A heart that was forgiven long ago. I think I can do it. I believe I can write it better now than it could have been written two weeks ago, or at any time in the past. I believe that. But I won’t know for sure until I go there.

And so I leave you for awhile.