It felt like a chair lift to the top of a mountain I’d been preparing to summit with an arduous climb. I must have prayed for an hour before I sent the email.

Otherwise lovely people often struggle to hide their surprise at learning I have a literary agent. I get it; I’m usually giving legal expert or soccer mom more than author. But yes, I write. Not just in my journal.

“How’d you find your agent?” they ask.

“I cold emailed him.” Eyebrows raise. “I know, I’m still shocked that it worked.”

Here’s how it happened.

I was reading Why Everything That Doesn’t Matter, Matters So Much: The Way of Love in a World of Hurt by Andi Ashworth and Charlie Peacock, more specifically, the acknowledgements section, where I often turn first. What, you don’t? You should; it’s like a peek backstage, full of little gems, the coffee shops and communities who fueled the writer’s journey, surprising name drops. Like this profuse acknowledgement of appreciation, not for the editor, which is standard, but their agent, Don Pape. (Andi & Charlie: thank you for the indirect introduction!)

I was primed to notice because I had recently committed to the arduous mountain climb of seeking to get my writing out into the world.

And before that: had left a good job for a sabbatical, sitting fallow for months before rearranging the role of work to carve out space for creative and missional pursuits that wouldn’t pay my mortgage.

And before that: practicing sharing writing with an audience on a regular rhythm for years as a blogger.

And before that: years of spiritual direction peeling open the layers that had left me convinced my writing was a selfish, useless pursuit. (For me; I needed to go save the world. You creative genius writer friend are an artist and obviously called to create—go forth. You can see why this required years of spiritual direction to unwind)

And before that: years of writing for only myself.

To prepare for the climb, I followed the trail of countless mountaineers before me: I made a spreadsheet. In my own ADHD style, which I’m learning to embrace. Like a normal person, columns and rows for the relevant data. Then, like a magpie decorating her nest, I roamed the land for treasure, plucking marginalia of interest: writers who might have overlapping audience, people I could seek advice from, places that might be a good fit to publish articles. More like a scrapbook more than a plan. But I paid attention, and when something resonated, I snatched.

The agent referral was one such glittery objects that beckoned me, and over time, has proved golden. My premonition that Don might appreciate my work, and have chair-lift like abilities to help me on my journey has proven miraculously true. He stunned me by writing back, offering to connect. When we did, I immediately felt seen as a writer. He believes in my work, and helped me craft a book proposal, develop sample chapters, cull a list of potential editors. With much fanfare, we sent it out. Mountain summit in view!

And of course, as any climber knows, what you take to be a summit is often merely a way-station for a longer journey; an initial ascent often just affords a better view of the climb ahead. As I’ve spent more time on this journey, observing those further ahead—releasing debut works, signing a deal for a second book, a string of titles behind them and still wondering how to promote the work, hoping for attention and prizes, trying to be enough—it’s clear the glittering idea of a ‘summit’ is fools gold, a false god. There is no ultimate summit, after which you are forever queen of the mountain.

I keep returning to the truth simple enough for embroidered pillows, hard enough for years of monastic devotion: It is not the destination that satisfies.

Which is a helpful reorientation when you get off what you thought was a chair-lift to the top sliding on your butt.

“The writing is beautiful. The platform is too small.”


That’s what I heard from the first few editors, chucking me into the conversation all the writers I was coming to know seemed to be having. “I just want to write. Do I have to be on social media?” We tend to sound like my children protesting the request to put clean dishes. Well, if you want to eat dinner, this is the irksome chore on the other side of the coin. We’re too serious and thoughtful for this drivel, temperamentally, more comfortable hiding behind our words—there’s a reason we take to the page, not the stage. Ugh, what a bother.

So we approach social media begrudgingly, a means to an end. If I want get a publishing deal, I have to get just famous enough to prove to a future editor I can sell a book. I reluctantly consent to work at it, invest some resources.

Maybe I can hire someone to help me? I try, three times. Each possibility falls through.

Looks like it’s up to … me?

I possess no innate talent for or interest in self-promotion. OK, that’s not entirely honest: there is a tiny part of me, an ugly little part I want to hide, that laps up the idea. Fame, what, me? YES PLEASE! PUT ME ON A STAGE WITH AN CROWD OF ADORING FANS! I do not trust this part of me, even fear her, who I’d become if I indulged her, and consequently, try to cage her up, run to the opposite extreme. Again with the need for spiritual direction. In any case, what this means for my would-be adoring fans: a year ago, my name and face appeared nowhere on my website or the small Instagram I rarely used. Every marketer’s dream.

But sharing a book with the world, I gather, involves selling something. And more than a desired end requiring this means, I start to suspect God might have something for me in the process itself.

So I approach the process anew. Maybe this platform is not about getting famous enough, but a way of injecting a small dose of beauty into the algorithm. Maybe my feed can be a series of miniature signposts to the glory of God in our ordinary lives. I resolve to try to learn, submit to being a novice at mid-life, in public. If nothing else, serious potential for a spiritual discipline of humility.

I start reading about using social media for this purpose. Seek out help. Build a new website, with my name. Embrace my discomfort and take on a challenge of regularly sharing videos showing my face. Start engaging people online as a participant.

It feels so vulnerable, and honestly, so hard—you watch another person’s reel and think, oh cool, they talked for a minute about something interesting, I can do that. I try, and spend hours recording, editing, fumbling the controls with fingers that suddenly feel ogre-sized. It’s not how I want to be spending all this time, but perhaps it’s an honest stage of the process, like the hill-runs you undertake at sea-level before you even pack for the ascent.

As a result of all this effort, I’m proud to say my follower count has doubled. At least. All the way to … Er, I think I’m at 275? Unless someone unfollowed today.

A friend who started a writer account much more recently is nearly twice that. I don’t feel like I know what I’m doing, if what I’m doing is using social media to make myself famous enough to sell a book.

Yet, as I’ve engaged more thoughtfully on Instagram, subject to some guard rails I’ve developed—my social media rule of life, my spiritual director calls it—I’ve found something other than fame. Less glittery, but feels like gold:

Connection.

It has been a forum, as perhaps originally intended before the algorithm and ads drove us toward comparisons and consumerism, to engage with other people making things, as a fellow creator and as a reader. To learn from the journeys they have taken to birth art, to appreciate their work, and offer and receive encouragement.

And to connect with you, as readers and community.

Do you know that when you comment or respond to something a writer shares, it feels like fuel? I’m not sure how your engagement feeds the algorithm, but I know it feeds the soul. Hearing from you reminds me why I write: not for big stats but to offer you, the individual reader, something of value.


I think I have something beautiful and true to say, and I do want to share it with more people. But in the mean time, or whether or not that happens, it is a privilege to write for you. My audience at any size is made up of specific wondrous humans, none of whom are in the slightest bit small, and that is something to celebrate.

I want to hold on to this as I navigate the tension of giving my faithful efforts to the publishing part of the work—seeking to direct attention to what I’ve written—while not letting the results define me. So I followed the immortal words of Mary Poppins: in every job that must be done there is an element of fun. Find the fun and snap! The job’s a game! …

I built a game. (My concept & direction, my husband Nate’s digital execution.)

It’s live on the website now: https://jeannierose.is/bingo.

Enjoy!

How it works:

If you’re a writer: I want to offer it to you to encourage you. You can use it to track and celebrate how your work connects with real people. Mark a square when someone gives you similar feedback.

If you’re a reader: the writers you admire and enjoy are humans like you, who want to feel like their work connects. If something resonates with you, reach out and say it! Mark a square when you give similar feedback.

Either way: you can play online or print a hard copy. Get Bingo, snap a photo, share with me to celebrate with you. Then play again.