What’s Your Wilderness?

“It is doubtful that God can use a man greatly until He hurts him deeply.” — A.W. Tozer

Stieg Larsson’s Millenium trilogy has sold more than 20 million copies in 41 countries (as of spring of 2010).  The Swedish writer and journalist died suddenly of a heart attack in November 2004. The novels were published posthumously to critical and commercial success, making Larsson the second bestselling author in the world 2008.

And he didn’t live to see any of it.

There is something bittersweet in this that every writer will understand. It’s called “paying our dues” or “working in obscurity. ” And there’s no guarantee we will ever transcend that state. Nevertheless, it is a path that most “successful” artists must follow.

• The actress spends years on the small stage, in auditions, and low-budget TV commercials.
• The musician plays one seedy club after another, hauling equipment in the back of an aging cargo van, wishing his wife good night from a pay phone.
• The athlete labors in a foreign country and in D leagues, while scouts ignore him and teams swap his rights like worthless trading cards.

Sure, there’s many success stories. After years of silent struggle the actress lands a leading role, the musician signs with a label, and the athlete gets called up to the big league. However, like Stiegg Larsson, many artists never live to see the fruit of their labors. We die in the D league: unpublished, unknown, obscure, a John Doe in the Library of Congress. Nevertheless, we continue the trek, hoping one day to crest our final sand dune.

Like Moses.

Moses is typically viewed as Israel’s greatest prophet, a white-haired, fiery-eyed, oracle who spoke face to face with the Almighty. But before he ever achieved that status, he had to be broken. Moses’ ministry could be divided into three 40 year increments. The first 40 and the last 40 are the ones we remember. The middle 40, not so much. You see, the middle 40 Moses spent as a shepherd in the wilderness of Midian. A shepherd. Pretty unglamorous, huh?  Wool. Dung. And lots of bleating. Yet some suggest that it was Moses’ 40 years as a shepherd under the shadow of Mount Horeb that prepared him to lead God’s people. It was the solitude, the obscurity — the breaking — that prepared Moses for greater responsibility, for the next stage in his manhood and ministry.

Likewise, your wildernesses prepares you for increased responsibility and/or success. Notice, I didn’t say your wilderness was guarantee of a Promised Land. Because it’s not. Just ask Stieg Larsson. What the wilderness does is to humble us, temper our aspirations, give us a deeper appreciation for hard work, and a measured rest in success.

While perseverance is essential to being a writer, being broken is essential to being a human.

I was thinking about this when my agent, Rachelle Gardner, recently announced she was representing T. Anne Adams. I follow Anne on Twitter and Facebook, and really like her panache. When Anne announced representation and shared her journey, I couldn’t help but like her more. The years of struggle. The fits and starts. The determination, the frustration, the despair. Her path to representation was not unlike a wilderness trek. And, in truth, all she’s done is crested another sand dune.

But for every Anne, there’s 100 authors you’ve never heard of… and probably never will.

After I left the ministry (in ’97), I wandered. I had no writing aspirations and had never studied the craft. I went back into construction feeling confused, defeated, and rudderless. No, I wasn’t there for 40 years like Moses, but it sure felt like it. How vividly I remember working the graveyard shift and sitting in gridlock, time and again, crying out to God (and often crying) for something more.

But all I got was another sand dune.

So last week I received an advance copy of my debut novel. Surreal. And bittersweet. I didn’t hoot and holler. I didn’t bawl. I was numb. You see, I couldn’t help but remember what had come before, living under the shadow of Mount Horeb, listening to the wind moan across the vast dry horizon. Feeling like a failure. Sleeping at noon behind foil-covered windows. Sitting in gridlock.  Wondering. Second-guessing. Feeling utterly alone.

Maybe that’s one reason why holding the book was so humbling. It made me remember the breaking.

Some of you want to be here, where I am or T. Anne Adams is. Instead, you are in Midian. You and your stinky flock. Your “rejection slips” folder is full. You’ve read the how-to books and re-worked your novel to the point of exhaustion. You’ve followed the rules and the editorial advice. You’ve attended conferences and networked. You’ve labored in obscurity. Yet you surmount today’s hill only to meet another sand dune. And there is no guarantee you will ever reach the Promised Land of publishing.

That, my friend, is where you will find yourself.

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So what’s your wilderness?