I have a dilemma. So I've written this novel. I like it, I enjoyed writing it. I felt God called me to do it. But and this is where the BUT always comes in, is it still of value even if only a few people read it? Does it have to be published in order to matter?

Reflexively, most people would say I need to get the novel out there (you know - out THERE - what ever that means). The problem with that is, then I have to be out THERE as well.

It is not enough just write well, does one have to blog and get a bizzilion hits on Facebook? Ugh!

I've read some of those "author" blogs. I'm not nearly clever enough to talk endlessly about my feelings and use mild swear words to show how hip I am. I just don't have the endurance to make it all about me anymore.

I have been through stuff, sure - who hasn't. But who wants to re-hash all that for the feeding public. Does it really change anyone if I share about how I die daily on the mission field? It has become exhausting to describe (eloquently of course), for example, how the kids and I finally decided yesterday to give up trying to make the other people in the house see the importance of Sunday lunch. It's a big American tradition but of less than no importance to Ugandans.  Or how I don't get to read to them anymore before bed because we have family prayers now. Or how the discussion alone brought us closer together as a family.

Do people really care about all that? Wouldn't it be better to tell the blog readers how the Lord has impressed on me the Glory of His name? How He is a holy God and how that revelation made me go out and clean the manure from the cow’s stable.  

What's a girl to do if she doesn't want to put herself out there?

I'm beginning to see the value of obscurity. There are already enough free thinking, outside the box Christians who make God seem like their buddy. I just can't stand to do what it (seemingly) takes to get the exposure I need or garner the attention I should have, in order to get noticed and therefore published.

Why can't I just be a middle aged lady, shaving my hairy mole, wearing sensible shoes, keeping my head down, just plowing through.

I remember the days when no one had to know every detail of Beverly Cleary's life before they could believe that Ralf the mouse really could ride a toy motorcycle just by making the vroom-vroom noise.

I don't want to be a celebrity. I don’t even really care if I’m understood. I just want people to read my novel.   Maybe I'm old fashioned but I just don't have the burning question, "What about me?" Does that make me un-interesting as a novelist?

Because I don't want to talk about myself, does that mean I don't have anything to say?