And Then There Was Light (Tara Taylor Quinn)

If there is no light in your life, then find light. If you can't find light, keep looking. If you find the promise of light, but are being told no, keep asking, seeking, opening your mind to other ways in which to bring the light into your life. Keep your focus on finding the light. On living with the light. Don't give up faith. Just keep focused.

This is my life lesson. And it repeats itself over and over again. I've known, since I was in first grade, that I was going to be a writer. I just knew. It's who I was. I look back now and wonder about that little girl child who, at six, was so certain. How could she possibly have known who she was and what she was going to do with her life? I wish I had her answers. I wish I could see as clearly now as I could see then. I love that girl. I am so thankful that she had enough clarity to see her way. And then the drive to show me her way, through every stage of life. I wrote my first story at six. "It Happened One Night." It was a suspense story about a home invasion. The heroine, of course, was a little girl. Her mother was the other protagonist. The father woke up at one point, but the mother and daughter told him to go back to sleep. He did. And they took care of the home invader.

And now, a whole bunch of years later, I'm still writing suspense. Still writing strong heroines.

That story was my light. It guided me through teen-aged years where I read Harlequin books instead of socializing. It led me through a short career as a newspaper writer, through a few published magazine articles, through college and on into graduate school studying the great American writers. And it sustained me through six years of rejections - all from Harlequin Books. It didn't seem to matter how many times Harlequin said, "we wish you luck placing it elsewhere." I just kept writing. Kept sending. I was focused on my light.

And this summer, the President and CEO of Harlequin Books, along with two Vice-President's, handed me an award for pubishing fifty books with Harlequin Books.

Two weeks ago I was working 18 hours a day to finish a book. Twelve days straight without a break. The schedule took it's toll on me, but the light did not dim. Instead, the light grew brighter. It led me to the story hour after hour, day after day. My hands started to hurt. To cramp. And then my arms. That was a first for me. And still, the light guided my mind, and my fingers. Until the book was done. And I could rest.

Okay, I could take a break. I'm not real good at resting. I have two more books to write by January 31. And two to revise, too. And that is the light. My light. Because I am a writer. Just ask my six year old self. She'll tell you. She is a light in my life.

And there are more. When I was eighteen, in my sophomore year of college, I met the light of my life. Make no mistake, this man was truly the light. And just to make certain that I had every chance to get the message, Debbie Boone came out with the song, "You Light Up My Life." It was 'our' song. I'd sit in the student union, waiting for him to get out of class, and hear that song, and write notes to him. I read one of those notes recently. In it I'm telling my love that "You Light Up My Life" is playing. I got the message. But I didn't focus enough on the light. I let fear get in the way. Fear that he didn't love me as I loved him. Fear that I wanted too much. Too soon. Fear of the power of the love that had me in its grip. I let fear convince me that he didn't love me at all. And I lost him. I lost sight of the light. I was in darkness.

But the light didn't go out. Many years later, three years ago, when I was on deadline, I went to the office early Monday morning, knowing that I was facing a week of long days and nights, to finish the book that was due. I opened my e-mail client just to make certain there was nothing pressing and there was the light, shining so brightly I could hardly see. His name. In the from box. I couldn't believe my eyes. I'd just passed by his town in the midwest a few months previously while I was on book tour. I'd spoken of him - for forty-five minutes. And still, I didn't dare focus on the light. Thankfully I wasn't alone on this particular journey. I wasn't the only one who could see that light. He brought it to my inbox. Seven months later, I stood clapsed tightly in his arms on a patio dance floor, moving with him as a recording of Debbie Boone sang "You Light Up Life." Every word of that song came from deeply within me and I sang each one to him, my husband, as we danced at our wedding reception.

We still play that song regularly. Reverently. Sometimes, when I'm feeling down, he'll put it on. And I know. I will not lose focus again. I will not let fear blind me. I can't. The light shines more brightly than any torch held by that six year old child and look where she's taken me.

And now Tim and I have taken to making light as we build our life together. We're in the process of remodeling a home before we put it on the market. We're doing it together every step of the way. Every choice, every job, we're both there. (One of us does more manual labor than the other, though.) We're working on the kitchen. Remember the beginning of a breakfast bar I posted a month or so ago? It's done. And beautiful. Walls are built. The kitchen is painted. We're tiling a couple of walls this week, and then hope to have the floor done by the weekend. And we needed a light. A special light. One we couldn't find.

And then, last weekend, after the mammoth work schedule, I finally finished the book at noon on Sunday. I was exhausted. Brain dead. And couldn't rest. So we went to our favorite antique mall to walk around. Just to look at beautiful things. And we found a tiffany lamp shade. Just the shade. With raw edges. Nothing else. It was old and heavy and absolutely perfect for above the breakfast bar. We bought it. For a steal. And have spent the past week in shops, looking for parts, trying to piece together modern lamp pieces to fit the openings on this old tiffany shade. A couple of times it seemed hopeless. But we didn't give up. We just kept trying. Focusing on the light. I went on line and studied lamp making. Tim, the engineer, came up with a design. Built a prototype. And last night we had light.

You see it up there.

A symbol of life. Of love. Of the power of faith.