“Have we met before?” the author said, scanning our surroundings at the bustling event.
The writers’ conference boasted a large gathering of riveting speakers, notable authors, new writers. And like me, the creatives milling about the auditorium hoped agents, editors, and publishers would notice them. The woman—many books to her credit—waved a finger, motioning to someone behind us. Her gaze drifted back to me.
“A couple of years ago,” I said. “We talked again last year.” And I mentioned a third writerly event where we mingled and where we really connected—or so I thought. We had even exchanged business cards twice.
Without words now, she smiled, but her blank memory had much to say.
Of course she was busy with life and people. Of course she had bigger goals to pursue. Of course it would be difficult to remember an unpublished someone. But my name was unusual enough to spark at least some recollection, wasn’t it?
Baffled by my interaction with the author, I drove home at the end of the conference. Maybe with future publication my memorability would change. I shelved my fears of being forgettable—what good would it do?—and instead mulled over the highlights of the convention.
When the same thing happened with a few different writers at another seminar the next year, though, I let my brain venture into that place. What was going on? Would my visibility change someday when someone offered me a publishing deal? Would people remember my name—or face—then? What did I think I was doing anyway?
Notoriety mattered in the profession, and I wasn’t out there yet. Instead, I worked in life’s darkroom, practicing my skills in seclusion while praying the developing picture turned out beautiful.
But it felt like forever in the dark.
One day while I drove on 35W North to meet a friend, I envisioned my early writings, bound in book form as they stood, and something tweaked my gut. My face heated. Those beginning drafts weren’t developed yet. What if they had gotten out to the public years ago like I thought I wanted, but embarrassment and regret followed? What if the masses read them, raw and unprocessed as they were, and the message didn’t move them? Premature light—too early exposure—would’ve destroyed the final product, stripping its beauty.
What was the darkroom’s purpose? Refinement. What was its offering? Time. What was at its essence? Peace. Blessings hid in the season of being unknown, unnoticed, unseen. And protection rested there.
So, to those of us still practicing our gifts in obscurity, remember this: One Day. And until then, leave the darkroom shut. When it’s right, the One Who opens and closes doors will fling yours—and mine—wide, and the final picture will be worth it.
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.