Naturally, when you make an investment, you want to see a return. But, after a considerable number of investments with limited returns a smart person wouldn’t continue.

However, to have faith in anything gives you experience with delayed gratification.

I have been making investments in my writing career and publishing pursuit for more than 20 years. When I say investments, I mean attending conferences in far away cities, cancelling plans with friends to attend author talks, hours spent on applications for mentoring or diverse author programs; workshops, submissions, proposals. I could go on. Most recently I went to New York for a meeting at Penguin Random House, it was the second time I’d been invited. The first time I wasn’t selected for a manuscript review or meetings; but the second time, I was chosen to meet with two agents and two editors. The stakes were high. Speaking of investments, I bought a new dress, I arranged to share a Times Square hotel with another attendee, and I bought a flight of course. I also had to board my dog, park at the airport and my get hair and nails ready for others to see them. This day would be much different from a work from home day. Additionally, I sacrificed a day of PTO and missed an industry conference I’d been waiting two years to be invited to. This was a substantial investment of my money and my time; yet, I did not walk away with a tangible return. No deal, no agent, only the slightest bit of interest in my book; a breadcrumb. A very expensive breadcrumb.

I have poured years of work into my manuscript, which makes me think maybe I’m spending too much on this one bet. I’m truly starting to think I’ve got it all wrong.

After processing for a while I’ve decided.

I shouldn’t be thinking of my manuscript, or my writing career as an investment and return. It’s not transactional, but something I work on for a longer term. It’s a journey, sure, but that analogy is tired. It could be a cell? A baby I’m nurturing. No thank you. What is the equivalent of this experience with delayed, if ever any, gratification for writing and publishing?

I wish I knew the names of beautiful trees and flowers, but I do not. I grew up in a small suburby town; afraid of anything that crawled. I know a few, sure, but I know grass and clovers and dandelions much better.

All these years I’ve been growing grass from seed; watering, maintaining, nurturing my lawn.

I am making long-term investments, sure, but again, no one in their right mind would continue investing this way without a return. This writing career might not look like much, especially if I compare it to my neighbors’.

However, it has some color.
It marks my place on the street,
and the people on my block can see it.
It is part of an ecosystem. It is growing.
Everything I write is created with love.
It feeds who it needs to feed.

Maybe someday I’ll win Yard of the Month. Maybe I won’t. Maybe wildflowers will sprout. Maybe weeds will take over. Either way I am going to keep planting, keep watering; I am going to keep going. Even if it doesn’t mean anything to anyone else, it means something to me.