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Day 15: A Song That Describes You

Day 15: A Song That Describes You

"Write Your Story" by Francesca Battistelli

I'm an empty page
I'm an open book
Write Your story on my heart

An excited scream fills the air and soon the pounding of feet on the stairs replaces the scream as I run downstairs and into the kitchen.  “Mom!  Mom!”  Getting to the kitchen, acceptance letter in hand, I begin jumping up and down, quiet childish for a sixteen-year-old, and practically shout my good fortune.  “An agent from the Brewster and Moore Literary Agency wants a full copy of my manuscript!”

Mom, who’s making dinner, wipes her hands on a dishtowel while turning away from the stove.  “What?  Slow down, I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

I stop my jumping up and down and hold out the letter to her, my hands shaking from excitement.  “A literary agent from the Brewster and Moore Literary Agency wants to read my full manuscript… THEY WANT TO READ MY FULL NOVEL DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS?!”  I begin jumping up and down again before doing my victory dance.

Hey, everyone has their own victory dance.

After Mom reads me the letter she gives me a big hug and kisses the top of my head.  “I’m so proud of you.”

I smile.  “Thanks, Mom.”

One year later...

“Willow!  Time to leave!” my mom calls up the stairs.

“One second!” I yell back down, hurriedly putting in my silver chandelier earrings.  Grabbing my clutch, I look myself in the mirror.  A little black dress and black ankle-high boots clad my body.  I turn my head and my earrings swing to and fro.  I smile at my reflection before hurrying out of my room and head down the stairs, the same stairs I ran down when I got the wonderful news an agent wanted to look at my manuscript.

“Ah, well if it isn’t the lady of the hour!” my dad exclaims, dressed in his one and only tux.

I laugh and blush.  “Oh, hush.”

“I’ve got to get a quick picture of you!” my mom pipes up, wearing a fancy floor-length gown.

I roll my eyes.  “Can we save that for later?  We don’t want to late, seeing that the party is for me.”

Mom doesn’t budge.  “Get close to your dad.”

After a couple minutes Mom finally has her pictures and we head off to the restaurant in downtown Manhattan.  Arriving there, my dad escorts me and Mom into the very swanky (and very expensive) restaurant.  The waiter shows us to the private room and I see that everyone’s already there.  My publicist, Jen Showalter, greets me with a dozen roses and kisses on both cheeks.

“You look so beautiful!”

I smile.  “Thank you, so do you.”

My agent, Christy Moore, one half of Brewster and Moore Literary Agency, comes up to me.  “Let’s sit and order, then we can talk,” she suggests before giving me a hug.

We all sit down and I see everyone who’s on my writing team talking with one another.  I spot Christy’s sister, Emily Brewster, who’s the other half of the literary agency, talking with a couple of my close friends who are part of my critique group.  My editor, Dave, waves at me from down the table.  I smile at him and wave back before setting my roses down underneath my chair, but not before taking a good whiff of them.

After our orders are taken, Christy stands up with her glass of wine in hand.  The conversation in the room pitters down until the room is silent.  “I would like to present a toast to Miss Willow.  About a year ago I remember getting a query about a young adult, Christian thriller.  I was blown away with the query, thinking that this adult had wonderful writing skills, and decided I just had to read all of it.  A few weeks later I’m calling up the writer, only to find that I’m speaking with, not an adult, but a sixteen-year-old.”

I blush, embarrassed by Christy’s high praise.

“This toast is to you, Willow.  I see a bright future for you.”

I nod my thanks and take a sip of my sparking grape juice, as so does everyone else.  More toasts and speeches are made until our food comes.  Finally, people are asking for a speech from me.

I stand up after some pushing.  “You won’t be getting a short speech, let me tell you that.”

Chuckles are heard around the room.

“First, I’d like to thank God the Father for giving me inspiration to write this novel.  Without Him I wouldn’t have been able to do it.  I’d like to thank my parents, who’ve encouraged me to make my passion a living.  And also for sticking up with me when I’d stay up until the wee hours of the morning writing and be so cranky in the morning that you wouldn’t dare talk to me unless I had coffee in my stuff.  Christy, without you my novel would’ve never made it to the press.  Jen, thank you so much for guidance in the publicist business, without you my book probably wouldn’t even be known here in the US or the UK.  Dave, thanks for putting up with my stubbornness when I wanted to keep something in my manuscript.  Your mentorship is greatly appreciated.  Wanda, your creativeness for the cover is absolutely stunning.  I am in love with it so much.  To all my critique partners and beta readers, some sadly aren’t here tonight, thank you so much for reading and rereading and making notes and showing me mistakes.  Last, but not least, I’d like to thank Zondervan, my publishing house.  Without them my manuscript wouldn’t be on a shelf next Tuesday for everyone to read.  So again, thank you so much everyone.”  I smile at my entourage before sitting down.

Applause fills the room and I grab my drink and take a long sip to hopefully hide my blush.  Setting it down, my eyes roam the room and I remember back when it was only me and my laptop.  Late at night I’d be up typing away, wondering where the next twist would take me.

One day I had heard a new song on the radio—“Write Your Story”—and immediately wanted the lyrics painted on my wall.  After some pleading my parents consented and now, painted on my blue walls in black, are the words “write Your story on my heart” to remind me to let God write my story.

Leaning back in my seat, I look at the all the people who made my dream possible and I thank God for all of them.