On Gratitude, Fear, and Finally Finishing the Damn Book

I know I like to wallow in the mud sometimes, dragging problems into the light, turning pet peeves into full-blown rants, pointing at the absurdity of the world and saying, “Look at this shit”. It’s part of my process. It’s part of how I stay honest.

But there are also moments where I have to shut the hell up and admit something simple: I’m grateful.

Life is hard. It’s brutal, chaotic, heartbreaking. It fucking sucks more often than it should. But underneath all that? Life is beautiful. Messy, fragile, terrifying — and goddamn beautiful.

And it’s ours to shape.

If you wake up expecting the day to suck, surprise: the day sucks. Attitude isn’t everything, but it’s a hell of a lot more powerful than we admit. We influence the world around us in ways we’ll never understand.

Yesterday, I embraced that truth. I leaned into the forced downtime, stared down the boredom, and resurrected my memoir, And So, She Rose. My life had added two or three new chapters (as it tends to do), and I finally committed to telling the rest of the story.

And then something wild happened: the words poured out of me. Not trickled — poured. Like a hydrant cracked open with a wrench.

And when I reread the entire manuscript from start to finish?

Holy. Fuck.

I think it’s done.

Done enough to stand on its own. Done enough to belong in the world. It’s a little short, but honestly? That feels perfect. The message is tight. The rhythm lands. It’s approachable. It’s honest. It hits.

So I asked my new friend ChatGPT what the hell I’m supposed to do now — what’s the best route to publishing this thing? After some back and forth, I’m leaning toward self-publishing. Yeah, I know the drawbacks: less “credibility” with the literary gatekeepers, more work on my end, marketing is on my shoulders, blah blah fucking blah.

But it’s also the fastest, cleanest, surest way to get this message into the world. To stake my declaration of authorship. To stop waiting for permission and just fucking do it.

Last night I went looking for a proofreader. This morning, my top choice wrote back. The price is right. The vibe is right. And for the first time, this whole thing has teeth.

I’m committing $350 to proofreading. Next, I’ll need a cover artist. Then formatting, publishing, distribution — I don’t even know what the fuck else.

This is new territory. Self-publishing always sounded like something ego-driven people do. I hope it doesn’t read that way when people finally hold this book in their hands. For me, this isn’t ego — it’s acceleration. It’s urgency. It’s finally claiming the story I died three times to be able to tell.

And yeah, it’s scary.

But fear doesn’t stop me. Fear has the opposite effect on me — it makes me move. It makes me lean in. It makes me turn my face directly into the wind and say, “Let’s fucking go”.

So here I am: Excited. Terrified. Grateful. And finally — finally — holding a book that feels complete.

A book that is ready for the universe.

As fucking is.