“Is there anything you want?” as if a sudden thought had struck him. “Do you want toys, books, dolls?”
“Might I,” quavered Mary, “might I have a bit of earth?”
In her eagerness she did not realize how queer the words would sound and that they were not the ones she had meant to say. Mr. Craven looked quite startled.
“Earth!” he repeated. “What do you mean?”
“To plant seeds in—to make things grow—to see them come alive.”
—The Secret Garden, by Francis Hodgson Burnett
About 20 minutes ago, when I opened up my laptop to begin work on this article, I received another rejection email. I’ve been in the process of querying to publish my third book. After a tough decision to leave my original publisher, I am striking out on my own. So about three times a day, I send a letter to an agent.
I am waiting to be liked.
So far, only one tiny spark of interest has occurred—and it was just snuffed out 20 minutes ago.
This writing gig is not for the faint of heart. I knew that from the beginning, but I also had it pretty easy with my first two books. The publisher came to me after finding an article I’d written. I never had to go through the harrowing experience I am now. Finding an agent is a multilayered, tedious process of waiting, writing, hoping, revising, and praying. Some bits of crying have been sprinkled in too.
At times, I’ve felt that praying about this book and my writing is silly. It’s not “real” work, I tell myself. It’s not mothering (my main gig) or working (my teaching gig) or cleaning (my forever gig). There’s a wife gig in there too.*
After reading the email, I stared out the kitchen window and tears poked at my eyes. “Do I ask for favor, God? Or for patience? Does this book matter to you at all? It matters to me, a lot. Is that bad?”
My prayers are questions. I am petulant. Maybe a little sullen.
But I am asking, I think, for a bit of earth.
When I first read The Secret Garden, I was about eight. It was the summer of Black Beauty, and my mom had suggested I try something new instead of reading the same book 14 times. She pulled a green-covered volume off her shelf and suggested I give it a try. She did not realize that I would then embark on almost a yearly reading of The Secret Garden.
It was a lovely book and I devoured it in about three days. I was fascinated by Dickon, the rough Yorkshire lad with woodland creatures trailing him in adoration. I decided befriending the animals around our suburban home was my new life focus, and I stalked them in my backyard until my dad labeled this as “piddling around.” He promptly put me to work picking up sticks. I wanted to explain that I was trying to become a robin’s best friend like Dickon of the Moors, but my dad has mastered this thing called the Gigantic Look of Irritation, and I didn’t want to risk it.
The first summer of Covid, I read The Secret Garden to my boys. They protested at first. “There’s a girl on the cover, Mom,” one child protested, poking at her face as I held the book in my lap.
“It’s not just about a girl. There’s a guy! He talks to birds!” I protested. The slightly older son managed to cock an eyebrow at me. “Not in a weird way,” I added. “Oh, and it’s got a garden!” The massive disinterest on their faces reminded me of my father, but I was not deterred.
As I finished chapter one, a small voice under a blanket said, “Keep going.” We read together for a week or so, and I cried when we got to the end of the book because of healing and hope and all that. We all really needed that book during Covid.
But this last year I realized I needed it in a different way.
I’m also Mary, you see.
At times these past two years, I have wondered if I should quit writing altogether. Now, I know God is not in the discouragement department, so I figured he wasn’t telling me to quit. But since I’m a writer and we really like to pack a whole lot of subtext into everything, I began to think the difficulties with the book meant God was trying to tell me to not love it so much.
Okay, I won’t quit, I thought. But I won’t care. Maybe God wants me to tone it down. Maybe writing and creativity are frivolous activities, or just a bit weird, like the big, dangly earrings I wear because they make jingling noises when I walk. Perhaps it’s time to lose the earrings too.
But I wake up thinking about writing. I scribble down article ideas before I fall asleep. And when I go on long runs, I also go on long “writes,” and running really hurts otherwise, so how am I to stop doing that?
I tried to tamp it down. I tried not to care. But that just made me quiet and sullen and wan. Nobody likes to be wan.
This year, The Secret Garden reminded me to keep digging in the dirt. My bit of earth matters to God. Asking for it is a blessed conversation. Creativity deserves unearthing. It needs to be dug out to meet the sun.
So I will write and write, and write some more, even in the face of rejection and unknowns and endless work. This makes me a Mary. Garden magic is for the brave.
*My husband has been my reliable and encouraging force during all of this. I call him every time I get a rejection, and he sighs with me and then offers to pray. He sings my praises. He is my robin.
