June, 2006: We’ve moved into a new house. I’m writing my, let’s see, third unpublished novel, while my second unpublished novel continues to be rejected by publishers. Money is tight because of the move. We want to have a second child, but that’s not happening, either. I can’t afford much day care time for my son so I can write, and what free time I do have is often spent freelancing to bring in at least some income. I’m frustrated with this third manuscript. I don’t like it; it doesn’t feel right, though it seems like it could be commercial. Maybe this one will sell, at last? In my frustration, I cheat on this manuscript with another story about a fading flower child and her colorful, messed-up family. It’s audacious of me to write a protagonist almost twice my age, I know, but I don’t care. Meanwhile, I get some good news to tide me over: the Cimarron Review accepts my short story, “Connection Lost.” I’m so happy about this I – literally – do cartwheels in my backyard.

 June, 2007: At least we’ve accomplished the “second child” part of the plan. My daughter is eight weeks old. That third manuscript was finished in the fraught and anxious last trimester of pregnancy, and given mixed reviews by my early readers. I pull the plug on my second unpublished novel, and put away the third one before sending it anywhere. I plot and plan how I might write around my newborn daughter’s nap schedule, and my son’s few preschool hours, and the occasional freelance story, and oh yes, keep the household running as best I can. I am deeply grateful for the baby swing and how it extends my daughter’s naps. I choose the audacious manuscript to write because at least I’ll have fun even if it’s never published, like all the others.

 June, 2008: The audacious flower child manuscript is finished. It has a name – Real Life & Liars – an agent, and yes, a publisher. During a dreamy, grey February, Avon/HarperCollins signed me up for a two-book deal. The publication date is a year away, which seems like forever, yet I also need every bit of time. I need a writer’s website, an author photo, and goodness, I need to write that second book, too. The baby is now a toddler. My son prepares to start kindergarten. Oh, and now we have a dog, a rescued mutt named Lucky.

June, 2009: I look out over a full house at Schuler Books in Grand Rapids, my hometown store, the place where I took a job as a holiday-season bookseller to help pay for Christmas presents, where my co-workers have cheered me on from the beginning. In the crowd are my family, friends new and old, strangers, and elementary school teachers who are so proud they’re glowing in their seats. My husband entertains our kids the best he can to keep them quiet. I dedicated the book to him, because first he made me believe, then me made it possible. I open my first novel to read aloud. I smile so hard through the whole night through, I sprain my face.

June, 2010: My second book – a vastly overhauled version of the Third Unpublished Novel – is The Life You’ve Imagined, and it’s coming in August. My publisher by now has signed me on for two more books. By 2012 I’ll have four published novels. Meanwhile, I await feedback on the manuscript of my third novel and plan tour dates for my second. Readers – this still surprises me, I have readers! – anticipate the next book, and with my excitement comes desperate hope I won’t let them down. I find myself looking back, astounded at what’s happened in the last few years, filled with hope and anxiety about the next five. But stop: breathe. Focus. I can’t predict the next five, the next one, not even tomorrow.

The baby is now three. My son finished first grade. Soon I will fix them lunch. The dog sleeps on the forbidden couch, and I’m pretending not to notice.