In Which Things Are Happening

Photo by Michael Geertsma.

Photo by Michael Geertsma.

When I was a little kid, I dreamed of sitting at a typewriter, banging out the Next Great American Novel. I wanted to be like that Robert Frost guy my mom admired so much – sure, he wasn’t a novelist, but I was six, so what did I know? I didn’t even know if I was a good writer, but what I did know was that I’d been reading since I could remember, and I wanted to move people in the same way the stories I was reading did.

When I was a sophomore in high school, my Advanced English teacher met with each of us students and talked with us about our writing. She didn’t have much to say in terms of what I needed to do to improve, she said, because I was already miles ahead of the rest of the class in terms of clarity, and precision and economy of words. This was the first time I can remember thinking “this writing thing could work.”

In graduate school, I needed an adviser for my thesis. I asked a professor with whom I’d had two classes – one formal and one independent study. He told me that he doesn’t usually direct Master’s students, but he’d make an exception for me because he enjoyed my writing so much. That’s a rare thing in academia apparently – to have writing that’s enjoyable.

And now, three and a half years after that conversation, I’ve discovered that other people like what I write. To the point that they want to pay me for it.

I have a book contract.

I am joining Matthew Paul Turner, Justin Lee, Jay Bakker, Nadia Bolz-Weber, Lillian Daniel, Brian McLaren, Philip Yancey and many other wonderful voices in publishing with Jericho Books, a religion imprint from Hachette. The book is scheduled for release in Spring 2015.

I am incredibly excited to start this next phase in my writing career. I may have even brandished the book contracts over my head while yelling “I’m going to be published!!!!!” at my cat. Because why not. Why. Not.

Thank you for all your support now and in the future. It means the world to me.

Dianna Anderson