One day we put away our toys, brush off our knees and accept recess is no more. We somehow get through knowing it all, only to realize we know nothing. We find ourselves as adults, standing on the precipice of life. Uncertain, yet somehow unafraid. Determined to prove ourselves, our only fear, failure.
We spend our lives searching for that one thing, we're truly good at. The thing that lights us up inside. It's not surprising we overlook what's been there all along.
That's the thing about dreams; they sit just outside our reach, shimmering like something meant for someone else. We think about them, ache for them, tuck them away as impossible. They leave us wanting, but not always doing. We fall asleep with them. Wake in the middle of them. We carry them quietly in the back of our minds. Always wishing, but rarely chasing.
I've been creating stories since I was three. Sitting with my tea set in the soft light of dawn, building entire worlds for imaginary guests. It was a child's coping mechanism, a way to feel safe. I narrated princesses slaying their own dragons, giving them permission to save themselves. Even then, storytelling was how I made sense of the world.
By fourth grade, I'd learned to put those stories on paper. I remember turning in a four‑page tale about a forgotten teddy bear being swept away in an untethered hot‑air balloon. Looking down on Italy and Greece, the sky itself becomes his playground. I don't remember every detail, but I remember the thrill of creating something.
In sixth grade, I wrote a seven‑page story about a town of bugs attacked by a can of Raid, and how they enlisted humans to save their village. My teacher told me he'd see my name on the cover of a book one day. Those words would literally change the trajectory of my life… one day.
I discovered poetry along the way and wrote my first fictional "novel" at thirteen. Writing wasn't a hobby. It was breath. It was the current that seem to carry everything else.
Like it does for so many of us, life shifted. Children arrived. Writing slipped into the background. My old Royal typewriter gathered dust. All of those nights I once stayed up until sunrise writing, morphed into entertaining a child who never slept. The ability to spin a story on command became a gift when my youngest began demanding a new one every night. The ones in books couldn't compete with the ones Mom invented on the spot.
Time moved faster than I ever expected. Life threw challenges and opportunities in equal measure. It wasn't until my youngest left for college, that I found myself pulling out a notebook and letting the words return.
In 2018, I began researching and writing a story that would become historical fiction. Set during the women's liberation movement of the late 1960s, it follows the intersecting lives of five women. The story soon took on a life of its own, flowing easily onto each page. When I finished the manuscript, it was the first time I felt I had written something worthy of sharing.
I revised it, edited it, rewrote it, for what felt like a million times, over the next 8 years. I sent it to hundreds of agents and dozens of publishers. I kept writing, and that single book grew as it gradually became the second book in a five‑book series.
I even wrote the last book before I ever wrote would be the first. Writing is strange like that. Weaving us backwards, then sideways, and always in surprising ways. Last year, I finally wrote what would be the first book, and it's beautiful. I began sending it to publishers in January. Last week, I signed a publishing contract with a small press in Minnesota. Between the Lines Publishing will release my novel, Finding Tomorrow, under its Liminal Books imprint, in 2027.
Most days, I still can't believe this is real. Other days, I'm right back in that elementary classroom, watching a story pour out of me like rain. I am 57 years old, and this will be my debut novel. Time passed. It seemed to have other ideas. Turns out, it was leading me down this long and winding road, to a place that I have been all along.