I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember. Over the years, it became more than just a hobby—it became a part of me, a second life where I could dive into adventures, unravel traumas, and indulge in a charcuterie board of side quests. Deep down, I always dreamed of being published, but it wasn’t until I started writing with my Uncle that the desire truly ignited into something tangible. Sure, A had a co-writing credit for a produced movie, a handful of spec scripts, a couple of qualifying awards but it was only during those covid era writing sessions that I reignited the thing within.

As I got older, I stopped talking about writing. I don’t know why or what caused my lack of verbal literary  proclamations. It might be the fact that if I talked about it I was slowly becoming  removed from the dream of seeing my words in an actual book.

Let’s face it: every writer wants to be published. It’s a form of validation, and validation is the spark that fuels so many great things. So, I took the plunge. I sent my novella to what felt like every contest, publisher, and agent under the sun—enough to fill the passenger list of the RMS Titanic. Most responses were rejections, some kind, others not so much. I get it—what I wrote isn’t for everyone. It’s not some earth-shattering, NPR-approved masterpiece. But it’s mine, and it knows how to hit readers where it hurts—leaving them just uncomfortable enough to remember.

I refused to give up. And just before Christmas, it finally happened—a small independent publisher picked up my book. Just like that, a dream I’ve carried for years became real. Honestly, I’m still pinching myself, even with the signed contract sitting on my desk like a trophy.

I’m beyond grateful for this opportunity and can’t wait to share more about the book as we get closer to its release this summer.

To my Uncle – You’re up next.

To all those who keep going I tell you this – check your grammar.