Proof of Life

Holy fuck.

I just ordered three proof copies of my upcoming book, And So, She Rose.

It’s happening.

I sat there reading through it, and immediately found two things I missed. One of those “names have been changed” notes I forgot about, and a paragraph that didn’t get indented. Nothing catastrophic. Just enough to remind me this isn’t magic, it’s work.

But here’s the thing: this book is basically done. It’s real. It’s tangible. It’s one final pass away from being something people can actually hold in their hands.

That part still doesn’t feel real.

And now… marketing.

Yeah. Fuck. I guess I’m going to have to learn how to do that.

But not yet. Not quite. First, I finish this. I take these last few steps and push it across the goddamned finish line. Then I can breathe for a second before diving into the next thing.

Because there is a next thing. There’s always a next thing.

I’ve got the Survivor’s Guide sitting there, waiting for its cover, its identity, its place in the world. I’ve got short stories out in submission limbo, waiting for acceptance or rejection or silence. And if they land, if they get published, I can start pulling together that collection once the rights come back to me.

And beyond that? I don’t know. I’ve started two more nonfiction projects. One is a prequel to And So, She Rose, the life before everything went sideways. The other is a leadership book, pulling from everything I’ve learned the hard way.

And then there’s the fiction.

Before the accident, I was obsessed with this dark fantasy universe. Completely locked in. Couldn’t get enough of it. Death, reapers, the whole thing.

Now? It’s on pause. Because something shifted.

Since the accident, I’ve had this pull, no, more than that, a demand, to write queer, transgender fiction and nonfiction. To tell those stories. To live in that space.

Maybe that’s what I was meant to write all along. Maybe everything before that was just kindling.

Or maybe I’ll circle back to that dark world someday.

I don’t plan this shit. I don’t sit down and decide what I’m going to write about next. The universe handles that part. When it’s time, it tells me. And when it does, I listen.

Right now, it’s telling me to write about life. Which is funny, because before all of this, I was writing about death. Now I’m not. Now I’m writing about what comes after you survive it. Feels like that means something.

Or maybe it doesn’t.

Maybe, like Tennyson said, more or less, mine is not to question why. Mine is just to do the damn thing.

Either way, I’ll have those proof copies in my hands this Friday. And yeah, they’re just proofs. But they’re real.

And when the final edits are done, I’ll order a hundred copies and start figuring out how the hell to get them into people’s hands. I’ll find readers, ask for honest reviews, walk into bookstores, try consignment, maybe set up readings. Maybe even get a booth at Pride and sell them there. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing yet.

But I’ll figure it out. Same way I figured everything else out.

For now, though? I’m just sitting here, smiling. Because this one is almost done. And that feels pretty damn good.