As a child, I waited to grow up.
As a grown up, I waited to get rich and happy, and live happily ever after.
As a mother, I wait for my son to get back home after an overnight camping trip.
And as a writer, I'm waiting more than ever...
To hold my first book in my hands and revel in its reality,
To finish my second manuscript,
To hear from my publisher that sales are great,
To get a reply on an e-mail I've sent,
For my SASE hoping its good news.
This reminds me of a poem I'd studied in school:On His Blindness
By John Milton
When I consider how my light is spent constantly
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."