I’m plagued by sciatica and a broken air conditioner tonight, and instead of sleeping at almost 2:00am, I’m complaining to an empty room about my pain and the heat, and scrolling around on social media.
Among the memes and selfies, I found a post that brought me to tears. A woman in one of my writing groups recently lost her mother, and today she found stories her mom wrote, packed away, along with her never-pursued dreams of being a published author. The daughter is beginning the task of editing and assembling her mother’s stories so she can either shop them to agents and publishers or independently publish them, in her mother’s honor.
The author of the post didn’t specify the reason her mother didn’t attempt to get published, but I think anyone who’s ever wanted to put their writing out there can probably think of a dozen or so reasons she refrained. The prospect of almost certain rejection is reason enough to give most of us at least temporary pause.
After reading and commenting on her post, the notification popped up to let me know I could look at my memories for this day. Those Facebook memories can just as easily dole out a punch to the jugular as they can offer a kiss on the cheek, so I always open them with at least a little caution.
Here is my memory from one year ago today:
One year ago today, I was putting the final editorial touches on the story I was going to shop around to agents and publishers. About four months after that, I got signed with Bold Strokes Books.
A year later, I’ve completed both books I mentioned in that post, and they are in production with my publisher at this very moment, with London Undone coming out in December. I’m currently writing my third book, which I’ll turn in to my editors by the end of this year and will most likely come out sometime in 2020.
It’s the middle of the night, and I can’t stop thinking about that mom who recently died, with her dreams still tucked away in a drawer. It’s beautiful and honorable for her daughter to take on those stories, and I hope she finds healing in her grief as she does so. Maybe that’s the good that will come of it.
I know so many aspiring authors who put their dreams on hold, and I get it. I was one of them for a long time. I definitely understand the importance of taking the time to develop your writing skills, polish your stories, and even thicken your skin for all the criticism you’ll receive as a writer.
But, like any big leap in life, the timing will never be perfect. You’re never going to have the time, you have to make the time. Your story is never going to be perfect, but that doesn’t mean it’s not finished. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed, so work on your writing today.
Look at the year I’ve had. All of this happened when I decided to get out of my own way and live the daydream. I know my story is slightly atypical, in that I’m getting signed and published faster than normal in the glacially paced publishing industry. Timelines aside, the overall process is the same for most of us.
We write a lot, we delete a lot, we edit a lot. We get some people to look at our writing. We shop it around. We choose between traditional and independent publishing. There are a hundred little varying details, but that’s the basic format. Broken down like that, it sounds pretty doable, right? It is. Not easy, not quick, but doable.
Where could you be, a year from now, if you spent the next 365 days throwing yourself into what you want for yourself?
Please don’t lock your aspirations away. They are too big and meaningful and glorious to let them die with you.






