Apparently, I’m an Author Now
I fucking hate marketing. I hate self-promotion. But apparently, somewhere between making sell sheets, sending books to festivals, volunteering at booths, and planning a motorcycle trip to Tucson around a fucking book festival, something changed. I finally stopped treating writing like something I do and started accepting that being an author is part of who I am.
It’s Never Fucking Done
I’ve called And So, She Rose “done” three different times. Broken wrist. Proofreader hired. Names changed. BFF feedback incorporated. And now the cover artist is working, which means “done” isn’t done until I say it is and publish the damn thing. Welcome to the chaos of self-publishing, where the writing ends and the real work begins.
On Gratitude, Fear, and Finally Finishing the Damn Book
After months of chaos, healing, and unexpected clarity, I reread my memoir from beginning to end — and realized it’s finally fucking done. What comes next is terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure, but I’m stepping into it head-on.
Awakening the Words
As my body heals, something else is coming back online — my words. Surgery restored movement to my left hand, and suddenly I’m typing again, writing like a woman starved for expression. It feels like healing and creativity are feeding each other in a loop. For the first time since the accident, my mind is awake, my fingers are working, and I finally feel like myself again — at least a little.