Elora Nicole Ramirez's Blog, page 26

i'm not alone

"You're going to need to find the ability to say no. Up until now, it's been about saying yes. After your baby is born? Choose wisely. Build in those margins." 

I was talking with a friend on the phone when she told me this. It's been just about the only piece of advice I've listened to concerning motherhood+creativity. Probably because this friend is a lot like me. She doesn't just crave those moments of creative respite - she needs them. 

So this past week, my calendar lay bare. I've been filling her up - making sure every spare moment is filled. This week? I took a trip to the library and stocked up on a few books. I cashed in an Amazon gift card and added a few more. I {tried} to sleep and when I couldn't, I allowed myself that extra dose of grace in the morning when it was just too difficult to get out of bed.

I'm slowly putting up the walls. I feel it. A maybe here - a no there - brick by brick I'm building the boundaries I will need in order to not stretch myself too thin. I've scheduled guest posts throughout June, and a friend is armed and waiting to step in to complete the Spring session of Story101. 

I'm realizing slowly: it's better to go deep than wide.

And I have no idea what my life will look like tomorrow or three weeks from now. This isn't me trying to build a schedule of sorts only to have it blown to pieces by colic or diaper changes. 

It is me learning a different type of self-care: one that includes my future son. Every decision I've made in the past few weeks carries the slight overlay of motherhood. Could I host a retreat with my husband and our three month old? Could I start a third round of Story101 in July? Will I have the mental where-with-all to tackle manuscript edits during June? I don't know. But the confidence is growing just in case I can and the grace is waiting even if I can't. Because it's not about proving something. It's not about saying to the world that I can do this or that even when - it's about bringing something out of nothing. It's about the rush of capturing beauty on the page and the thrill that pushes through my veins when the words fall hot. It's about #littlelionman watching his mother come alive before his eyes.

And when my husband chuckles and whispers under his breath no one tells my wife what she can't do, I remember I'm not alone. 

limp and dangling

We could, you know. We can live any way we want. People take vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience--even of silence--by choice. The thing is to stalk your calling in a certain skilled and supple way, to locate the most tender and live spot and plug into that pulse. This is yielding, not fighting. A weasel doesn't "attack" anything; a weasel lives as he's meant to, yielding at every moment to the perfect freedom of single necessity.

I think it would be well, and proper, and obedient, and pure, to grasp your one necessity and not let it go, to dangle from it limp wherever it takes you. Then even death, where you're going no matter how you live, cannot you part. Seize it and let it seize you up aloft even, till your eyes burn out and drop; let your musky flesh fall off in shreds, and let your very bones unhinge and scatter, loosened over fields, over fields and woods, lightly, thoughtless, from any height at all, from as high as eagles - Annie Dillard

A few years ago, I taught Annie Dillard's essay Living Like Weasels and was gobsmacked by the truth of these paragraphs. I stared at the words while my students discussed diction and syntax and my breathe caught when I realized what resonated with me so deeply.

I wasn't living like a weasel in those moments. My one thing was darting every which way in front of me, evading my grip and slipping through my claws every time I got close. 

If I wasn't careful, I'd lose it for good.

This marked the beginning of many soul-conversations sessions with myself. I knew teaching was where I needed to be in that moment, but what about in a year? Two? Five? Was staying up late grading papers and wishing I could write going to fulfill me forever? 

Absolutely not.

It was as if in that singular moment the realization of where I was and where I wanted to be catapulted me into a new reality where I was clinging to my one thing for all its worth. For the first time, I believed in my calling.

I went home and started writing my novel that evening. A month later I had 55,000 words toward a complete story. Three years later, I sat in a Barnes and Noble and signed copies for strangers.

I started incorporating the importance of story—and living your story—into my lesson plans at school. Students left my classroom saying, "if we learned anything, it's that our stories are important..."

I went to a conference on STORY and in the spring when I took part in a storytelling class, both personal and written, for my church's get trained program I realized my purpose: taking my knowledge of writing and inspiration out of the classroom and into the church. 

I just had no idea it would be behind the computer screen.

Voicing my dreams—however crazy—is the one thing that kept my necessity limp and dangling from my jaw.

So I keep doing it, however far-fetched they seem. Last year, I had no idea I would be here - speaking into you and your dreams and holding high the banner for women and their freedom. It took a friend looking me in the eye and telling me these dreams were worth the risk for me to understand my heart beats a certain way for a reason.

Let me do this for you?

I'm reaching over and grabbing hold of your hand. Those dreams? They matter. Even the ones that seem sort of nebulous and hanging in the balance of reality. The way you move, the way you react, the way you light up: it all matters.

A few months ago, starting a business seemed not only impossible, but ridiculous. Foolish. Not for me. 

Until I sat down, listened to my dreams, and realized it was exactly what my heart wanted to do. Coupling writing + inspiring others to live out their best story? Done. I'm there. 

And I couldn't imagine being anywhere else.

This comes from my 30 days to finding your one thing. Want in on daily prompts+inspiration? Sign up here. 

for this, I will write.

For close to a year, I resisted beginning the adoption process because I feared losing myself as a person.

At the time, I worked 60+ hour weeks and locked myself in a closet in order to finish editing Come Alive and rarely showed myself in public because therapy had me in emotional lockdown and I didn't know what it meant to socialize and work through trauma.

Even in the fall, when it looked as if we'd be expecting a baby girl come November, I hesitated to find the excitement because holy cow a tiny human. In my arms. In less than a few months.

And when it fell through, I did lose myself for a little while. For months I'd looked toward motherhood as my next big task. I'd launched my book, I found my groove with my blog, and I was 10,000+ words with a new manuscript. So who was I if my next step ended up being a mirage?

[enter Story Unfolding]

There's an article I use in my Story101 course that talks of breakthroughs coming with a fever. Whatever your "breakthrough" may be, it typically follows some type of emotional or physical upheaval. Whether it be a dream deferred, financial crisis, a failed adoption or the flu, for whatever reason creative people often find clarity in the midst of these difficult situations. For me, my clarity came after copious amounts of Gossip Girl episodes and side eye glances toward my laptop. I couldn't imagine finding creativity again. I couldn't picture what it meant to dream because what I thought was my dream, just being a mother who wrote and published books, it all fell through my grasp so easily.

I don't know anything about what it means to take over responsibility of a tiny human. I do know it's a lot of work.

I also know those months of disappointment following our failed adoption in the fall served as a special sort of refinement for my dreams and who I wanted to be as a woman and mother.

I want to be a mother who pursues her dreams

I want our son to wake up in his rocker sitting next to me or in the carrier resting on me and see me typing away on my laptop because it's what I love to do. I want him to know we are a family who breathes life into dreams and doesn't give up because of a shift in schedule or an unexpected wrench in our plans. 

I want to be a woman who doesn't lose her creativity with the birth of her child, but finds a deeper well because of the love and inspiration flowing through her veins as she watches her son discover his hands. I want to capture the delight of hearing his first laugh, or experiencing that first slobbery kiss, or watching him run to greet his dad at the end of the day. 

Here's what I believe: I'm not losing my life when our son comes home. I'm gaining a whole other dimension. And while my schedule may seem a little whacked out and while I've allowed time and space for margins those first few weeks, I have every intention to continue to pursue this creativity that pulses through my soul because I have to and because I know in the deepest parts of me that it will make me a better mother. 

So. Starting today, I'll be posting my thoughts on creativity+motherhood every Saturday. With exception for June, where I have a few friends on the docket for some guest posts that first month with our son, I'll be wading in these waters of what it means for me as a new mom who needs writing as an outlet. I'll wrestle through priorities, schedules, rhythms...maybe share some lessons learned and new things I'm trying. All of them will be bent toward encouragement and reminders that no one is perfect and we're all in this messy pursuit together. 

In the fall, I viewed motherhood as a task. A job. I assumed it would take up every.single.second. leaving me with no breathing room for other things.

I'm realizing now it's a both/and. It will take up every second of my day. It will leave me with what seems to be no breathing room at times. But that will leave me breathless and inspired by the absolute magic of it all. Motherhood is not a task or a project or a job. It's love in action. It's life in motion. It's tripping and stumbling and swinging and flying and soaring and careening toward a single hope that this soul now in our care will know one day just how much we loved, just how much we prayed, just how much we waited for him to come home before his name was even a thought or a whisper on someone's lips. 

It's Beauty and Risk and Authenticity and Freedom and Healing. 

And for this, I will write.

because i'm into you, april

I've been sitting here trying to think back on April and what it meant. You know, one of those meaningful opening paragraphs that pull you in because of my reflection. But there is none. Honest. April seemed like a flashbang in so many ways - quick, fierce, leaving me breathless. But most of all, it confirmed so much of what I feel called to do and write. So there's that.

Reading :: 

At the beginning of the month, I had this grandiose idea that I would read five books. Five! That's not a lot. Really. But for whatever reason, I was able to finish only two. I'm still in the midst of a few others.

Still - Lauren Winner writes of her divorce and mid-faith crisis here and I was drawn into those grey areas of spirituality with her. I loved it. 

Gifts of Imperfection - I mean, it's Brene Brown. Favorite quote: only when we're brave enough to explore our darkness will we understand the infinite power of our light. 

Yes. Preach. Amen.

Prophetic Imagination - I picked this book up for Kelly Nikohenda's #transitlounge book club and guys. It's good. I haven't finished it yet but I find myself thinking through Brueggemann's words randomly throughout the day. I have a feeling this will be an important book for me.

Lit - I started reading Mary Karr's memoir early in the month and got sidetracked by a few others things but from what I've read, it's beautiful and haunting and right up my alley. I have no doubt I won't be disappointed.

Unravel Me - The way Tahereh Mafi weaves her words is breathtaking. I read Shatter Me earlier this year and fell in love with the characters and their oh-so-complicated existence. I did the same thing with Unravel Me that I did with Shatter Me - picked it up, read a few pages, fell in love and then set the book down [with great difficulty] because I knew I didn't have time/energy to finish it. I hope to pick it back up this weekend. 

Television :: 

Guys, I finished the episodes of Gossip Girl on Netflix and I'm kind of freaking out because Chuck. I need the last season. Stat.

Other must see (read: guilty pleasure) television - New Girl (yes, still, I know) Mindy Project, The Voice, and I'm finally working my way through Pretty Little Liars while giggling at Dawson's Creek. Because Pacey.

Oh and - SMASH. Holy buckets this season is good. I feel like every episode I'm left with a desperate feeling for more and I have all of their songs in my head for days and days....I'm such a fangirl. And I'm now a fan of Derek. Who knew?

Music :: 

I'm still in love with That Girl by Justin Timberlake and well...who are we kidding...his entire album. Yum. I also can't stop listening to Tegan and Sara's new album. At any given moment there's a good chance Closer is running through my mind. Finally, Heroes and Monsters by Penny & Sparrow gets me every. single. time.

On the internet :: 

So I'm going to be honest and just let you know I've tried my best to stay away from most links this month. After a few...questionable posts went live I had to hide away for my own sanity. But this post about my friend's book deal {finally} and this one by a new friend on Deeper Story made me a little more hopeful for the future of words.

Highlights :: 

The last weekend in April marked the beginning of Story Session retreats. Ohmigoodness gracious did these women capture my heart in a big way. We laughed until our stomachs hurt, ate until we couldn't anymore (thanks to my amazing chef-husband) and wrestled through what it means to own our voices and words. For me, there was healing in this room and with these women. So much clarity. So much vision. Dropping Brandy off at the airport on Monday was probably my most un-favorite moment of the month.

On the blog :: 

I spent a week sharing what I wish I knew before getting published and then closed the month out by writing a little of my vision for this blog and well...my life. It's amazing how even those two things—seemingly so different—are really so interconnected. I guess that's the whole time being wibbly wobbly and timey-wimey, right? 

Linking up with the amazing, beautiful and ever so talented Leigh Kramer. You should join us, yes?

rebel diaries :: no longer a salesman

Editor's Note: I'm excited to pick back up with Rebel Diaries with this submission I've had since I first announced the series. How quickly we fall into the trap of turning Christ into a commodity. How faithfully He draws us back into His embrace.

I am a recovering salesman.

I sold House Church. After so many years I know the pitch by heart: "If you've been raised in the church you're familiar with this scene: It's Sunday morning and the family is frantically trying to get out the door. Inevitably someone is yelling, cursing, crying, sulking all the way to the church doors. But the moment you cross the threshold - the mask goes on. 'How are you, sister?' and you beam and say, 'Great!' You know what I'm talking about don't you? House Church isn't like that. The mask has to come off. People know the instant you come through the door that something is wrong. You can't hide behind a fake smile. You are in relationship. Community. Every joint supplies."

And just like that I had them dazzled.

Humans crave genuine relationship. It sounds idyllic. House church was the answer to everything that was wrong with typical American religion. I bonded with my peers in self-righteousness, distancing from the "institution" and all of those poor souls who mindlessly followed wolves in sheeps' clothing. It was rarely stated that "they" were all wrong - after all, we met in a building for decades without knowing any better - but we had no doubt that we'd uncovered the secret to "Biblical Church" and we were commissioned to spread that gospel. The pressure was on to bring in the harvest.

When people got uncomfortable and left the church the conclusion was that, "They love the darkness more than the light. They can't handle biblical relationships." I watched friends question church leaders only to end up leaving among whispers of rebellion, heresy, pride, and an unrepentant heart. We prayed for the destruction of the flesh that their souls might be saved.

I lived in fear of disagreeing with leadership.

For years I wrestled with doctrinal and relational issues. I couldn't reconcile what they believed with the word of God and what I saw. I lacked the courage to approach with my questions because I knew my loyalty to and trust of their leadership would be undermined. So I convinced myself to fake it til I made it. I became more of an expert at wearing the mask in house church than ever before in a church building. I was just open enough to prove I still had a relationship with the Lord and His people and most of the time I even fooled myself.

My mask began to crack the day my best friend and her family were excommunicated from our fellowship over a minor doctrinal difference.

Church leaders claimed the truth was spoken in love -- with tears and prayers that this drastic distance would wake them up and cause them to repent and return. Meanwhile, their name was dragged through the mud. It was suggested we distance ourselves lest we be influenced by "damnable heresy."

Distance wasn't an option for me. I was to be the maid of honor in my best friends wedding. My heart broke. All the questions I'd buried came rolling to the surface. I felt like I was in bondage, and wondered if I was blinded or even possessed for doubting. I was utterly unable to think for myself and weighed every conclusion against what I assumed the church would think of it. My closest friends and family were as deeply involved as I was and I risked losing it all by leaving. I was trapped. Nevertheless, I stood proudly by my best friend during the most God-honoring wedding I've ever been a part of.

And I prayed.
Desperately.
For weeks.

Finally the Lord spoke. "Your life does not hang in the balance of this decision. You still love me." And I realized -- I'm not leaving Him. I'm just leaving house church. I'm not sure whether I failed house church or house church failed me. I'm seeking counseling to sort through the lies I was told and the lies I perceived. For me, healing has just begun. I am fighting to figure out who I am and what I believe. But I know one thing: the gospel is no commodity and I am no longer its' salesman.

for you, a blessing

Stop for a second.

Breathe in deep. Close your eyes. Open them again.
See the beauty in the every day. 

Know that the Creator lives and moves and breathes within you.
So those dreams? Risk them. 
Those words? Write them. 
Those hopes? Believe them.

Sink deep into His embrace.
Know He's on your side
fighting
dreaming
pursuing
loving

And in these moments, these every day moments, may you see glimpses of the Divine
shimmering against the mundane
wiping out to worry, crashing against those brick walls

Embrace those waves of freedom, child.
leaving words and hope in their wake.

Always look for the beauty,
the trail of magic dust left behind from the Spirit's touch
Breathe this in daily - 
hourly
drawing strength from particles bubbling up like effervescent promises.

breaking in the marching boots

I'm sitting at a strange table, overlooking the Pedernales river. It's low. Drought has reached her claws into much of central Texas, and we see it most in the summer when we begin to shed our clothes and return to the water. Every time we're shocked at the way the rivers and lakes struggle to maintain their depth. 

But like most things, despite how the sun dries and crusts over the earth, there's a certain beauty to limestone stacked against the green of a tree. And so I'm sitting here, staring out the window, thinking of depth and unexpected beauty and how so much of this weekend has been restorative for me and my writing.

We spoke of burn out yesterday. I shared how quickly I can fall into the trap of comparing myself with other writers and their platform (ugh. THAT WORD). I see someone write about something and how it's worked for them and assume that I can come here to my space and write the same way on the same topic and not anticipate any type of questions or lack of authenticity. 

I know what I'm called to write: the holy and broken.

And every time, when I forget this, when I ignore the calling, when I study the way other writers move within their sentences, I become less of me and push against the clear voice of the One who gives me words in the first place. I burn out. I lose all desire to write. I feel gritty and bitter and resentful with all of these other people who have massive readership and wonder why bother? 

A few months ago, I was working through an art journal spread and I was struck with the mental image of thousands of women cresting a hill, marching together toward a specific purpose. I spoke with a few people about it: this army of women camped inside my heart and pushing my words up and out and emboldening me to speak truth. But I cringed whenever I got to the army part because who wants to hear about an army of women? Because issues. Controversy. Stereotypes.

But. In the midst of other women sharing their hearts about their message and words that capture who they are and the habits they can implement to prevent burn out, it hit me.

This vision of women marching? They aren't an army fighting against something. They are fighting for eachother. 

And this is what I want this place to be—it's why I dreamed up Rebel Diaries, why I finally laid claim to this purpose to speak Truth into women, why I get so tied up in knots when I hear women speak lies that are so prevalent in our society. It's what I hope for Story Sessions and what I pray over the women taking my course. 

So today, when we gathered together after way too much wine and lavender liqueur the night before, one rested her head on the shoulder of a woman next to her. Another went and brewed more coffee. Words were whispered and sentences were soft and blinds were closed until we could open up and see the sunshine without wincing.  And one woman looked at another and said, "I want to speak this Truth over you..."

Another grabbed the hand of the woman next to her and said, "of course you responded this way. And you're brave for doing so." And we stumbled through our words and we pushed through the tension and we asked the tough questions because we knew there was something in it—something close to magic and foreign to formulas and marketing strategies and platforms.

And in the end, I'd like to think there was a little bit of healing happening before our eyes. It felt a little bit like the stretching into the skin of who we're meant to be in the first place. As if these women were breaking in their boots for the long march ahead.

abide :: an embodied story

My heart pounded as the paper rested against my skin. I felt him pull the sheet off, the cool air brushing against the dampness, and I glanced back, half-smiling and half-hesitating.

“You ready to do this? It's going to look f-ing amazing.”

I nodded and he smiled and then the buzzing of ink filled our space, a familiar sound. With it, the pain. I always forgot the pain. I wondered if I had it in me to last the session. I thought about the artwork - the anatomical heart, the crown, the birds - and something shifted inside. I swallowed my tears and sat resolute, knowing what lesson I’d be learning. 

A few months earlier, a word fell into my heart and made itself at home. I knew it would be my word for the coming year, and began praying about what it would mean for me to take it seriously. You see, I like to run away. And this word? This word would force me to stay. 

Stay in healing.
Stay in His arms.
Stay in pain.

In 2012, I'd be learning the significance of what it meant to abide. 

And a day before the new year, I found myself sitting in a tattoo parlor, etching into my skin so much of the past year. Two and a half hours of scratching away the old and revealing the new. Two and a half hours of me fighting the fear and breathing deep and accepting the change. 

Toward the end, I realized I couldn’t do it alone.

I called for my husband, on the other side of the counter reading.

“Hold my hand?" My face scrunched up because I knew the tears were close.

"You need a break?" The tattoo artist noticed the way my voice shook and paused long enough to see me shake my head.

"No. Keep going."

"Good. It looks f-ing incredible, Elora."

I caught Russ' eye and he smiled.

"It's true. It looks amazing." And then he grabbed my hand, caressing my knee with the fingers not latched in between my own.

Please get me through this I prayed and realized how silly it sounded—me whispering prayers in a tattoo parlor— but everything in me wanted to run.

So I closed my eyes and remembered.

I remembered the first time my heart of stone cracked from the heat of His presence. I remembered the way the flesh underneath felt raw and vulnerable. i thought about how many times i heard people mention the promise of Him making our heart of stone into a heart of flesh and how I never really knew what it meant. I knew now it meant pain. It meant sacrifice and change and brokenness. The stone may crack at first, but eventually it needs to shatter.

I thought about how even then I was still experiencing the shards falling off in pieces.

I remembered His promise to take these ashes of my past and to give me a crown of beauty. I remembered all of the promises of freedom and renewal and restoration He’d given me over the years - how I never put any of them together until I truly allowed Him to take over—and now I was beginning to see the beauty of those ashes. They were forming something all-together different than I ever imagined and it made me feel alive and worthy and loved.

And then His goodness. I thought about how before I even utter a sound He knows my needs. I remembered over the past year—the moments I wondered if I could take another step—He came and rescued me. When i felt forgotten, He reminded me that even the birds are named, and I’d feel at peace.

I sat there and remembered this and tears of gratitude filled my eyes.

 "You got this," my tattoo artist said and I laughed because I knew the Truth.

I didn’t have anything. It was Him who held everything in His hands.

including me. 

Then I understood—I couldn’t run away if I tried.

When Beauty pursues you, the only thing left to do is abide.

You Need to Know :: You Aren't Crazy

I'm not sure if anything feels as crazy as deciding to write a book. 

But it's not.

Despite the late nights, copious amounts of coffee, lack of immediate feedback and fear of failure or never finishing, nothing beats the high of sitting down and writing a book. 

You can do it, you know.

Do you have an idea for a book? A page written of half-hearted thoughts and inspirations? Sit down. Flesh it out some more. Give yourself a word count goal and see what happens when you just start writing. Don't worry about editing, do that later. Don't worry about spelling, catch those mistakes on the flip side.

I always told my students: the first draft is written with your heart. The second and third and fourth, with your head.

So what words keep you up at night? What runs electric through your veins? You aren't crazy for thinking it just might be a book. 

Here is my letter of encouragement to you.

Today is your day one.

Enough with the excuses, the but I can'ts, the questions of feasibility or sleep or schedule. When you have the words begging to be spilled, spill them. The muse only comes around once and in my experience, doesn't take kindly to those who whine about timing.

Grab that notebook. Center the page if you must. Write at the top, in big bold letters 

Chapter One.

Now close your eyes. Breathe deep. 

And write.

What I Know About Agents

After I signed the book deal with my publisher, people often asked me how I landed an agent.

I took way too much pride in saying, "oh I don't have an agent. I did things...differently than most."

Here's the thing: by the time I realized that yes, if you're going the traditional route you absolutely need an agent, I'd reached a stalemate in the communication with my publisher, the publicity surrounding my supposed release date was sketchy at best and non-existent at worst and—I cringe when I tell you this—I hadn't signed any contract. 

It's true.

A year after agreeing with Rhizome that I would publish with them, I still hadn't received any contract stating how much I would get paid or where my words would be located or what would happen if the publisher went out of business. 

So I did the one thing I beg you not to do - 

I went searching for the first person who would show interest in my words.

The agent I signed with was new. He wasn't even with an agency, he simply worked out of his home and decided to help a friend write a book and through that process, decided he would take on other clients. Being desperate, I signed a contract without taking a second glance anywhere else, despite friends encouraging me to look around.

First lesson :: when finding an agent, know that you're choosing them as much as they are choosing you.

I started planning with my agent and setting goals for Come Alive. I had no clue what normally happened in one of these relationships, but he asked me what I wanted and I said, "well. I think I need a contract. And probably some type of firm release date. I've had neither." 

I had both within the week, and for this I'm grateful.

But a few weeks into the whole gig, I started feeling weird. There wasn't anything shady going on with my agent in general, but I started questioning my decision. I would make casual comments about blog posts or scenes within the book and my agent would respond with non-committal gruntings that made me wonder if he even read my words at all.

And here's the second lesson :: when finding an agent, you need to make sure they're reading you—whether this be your blog or your manuscript—or both!—they should know what you're about and where your words land.

I kept pushing, though. Regardless of my misgivings, my agent was working through some sticky territory with my publisher—asking questions and pushing for answers. It wasn't until late November, when he began whispering of talks with my publisher hinting at closing shop and selling, that I started noticing the response time in emails begin to spread thin. 

My fears were confirmed when my agent dropped me the moment I needed him most—when my publisher notified us that they were in fact closing and I still hadn't received a check. Instead of advocating for me and helping me clean up the mess left behind by a failed book deal, I was dropped because of dwindling book sales and lack of turn around. In other words, I wasn't a good investment. In other words, my agent knew he was making no money off me with my publisher screwing me over. 

Third lesson :: when finding an agent, choose someone who will fight for you. You sign because of a personal connection. Unlike publishers, agents are representing you and not a project. 

Looking back, I should have said something sooner. The stitch in my gut happened quick and with a lot of force and I should have paid attention to those red flags begging for my attention. I had no idea there were so many agents. I didn't believe there were agents who would be interested in my words. My lack of confidence resulted in rash decisions, oversight and me being left worse for the wear by people who should have known better. 

But these things happen, and hopefully you can learn from what I didn't know.

Because my fourth lesson is the most important :: when finding an agent, remember that there are some kick ass people out there who are damn good at their job and they are waiting for your words to cross their desk. Don't give up. Check your gut. Follow those instincts and if you're let down, keep moving forward. 

I almost gave up. When my agent dropped me, I had friends ask if they could help. Connections and networking go a long way in the industry. I knew this. But, I was so shaken and so confused by what happened I turned into a gun-shy wordsmith who didn't know what the hell she was doing anymore. But I know now. And a few weeks ago, I emailed those friends and told them I was ready. I've been researching, too. I have my eye on a few people and am working on query letters to send out once I have a better idea of who I want.

One thing's for sure: I won't make the same mistake twice. Hopefully, you won't make it at all.