Write a Book, They Said...

Write a book, they said. It will be fun, they said. They weren’t entirely wrong. Writing was the fun part. It was like eating cake for dinner—only to be followed by a ten-course meal of lima beans. Writing is the cake; everything that follows is the lima beans.

I had no idea what I was in for. Sometimes, I felt like I was the only person facing these challenges. I questioned my abilities—who was I to think I could write a book worthy of publishing?

If you’re a writer, you might recognize this struggle. If you’re a reader, trust me—we writers appreciate you more than you know!

I finished my book in a year. It could have been sooner, but life had a way of inserting itself into my guilty little pleasure. Once I deemed the draft complete, the next phase began: proofreading.

Proofreading. Crying. Proofreading. Shoving the book into everyone’s hands for feedback.

More frustration. More crying.

Editing should be an Olympic sport!

Then came the querying process—a beast of its own. I was so naive. I had no idea what awaited me. Overwhelmed doesn’t even begin to describe it.

Days blurred into weeks as I sat in front of my computer, researching agents. Not just any agents—ones who actually represented my genre. I studied them like a predator tracking prey. I created spreadsheets filled with their contact information, submission guidelines, and preferences.

Querying is not a “one-size-fits-all” approach. Every agent had specific requirements: some wanted five pages, some ten, some required attachments, others wanted content in the body of an email. I adjusted, reformatted, and rewrote query letters, synopses, and sample chapters countless times. I poured everything I had into this process, working with the tenacity of a mama bear protecting her cubs.

And yet, rejection letters rolled in.

Not once did I receive a positive response. Just the standard, soul-crushing rejections. My mental health suffered. My dream of being published felt like it was slipping away. Discouraged, I stepped away. I stopped writing, stopped editing, stopped querying. Years passed. Occasionally, I’d submit a query or tinker with a new project, but my heart wasn’t in it.

Then, I wrote another book—one I believed had more commercial appeal. But the cycle repeated: editing, revising, doubting. And still, I never finished.

Nine years after I wrote my first book, life finally calmed down. I found a flicker of motivation and forced myself to open that long-forgotten manuscript. I edited. Then I edited again. And again. Until I could no longer look at the pages without wanting to hurl myself off a cliff.

Finally, I made the decision: I would publish.

This whole process felt like pushing a boulder up Mt. Everest. Each step brought new challenges. No, I didn’t have an agent, but that was okay. I needed those nine years to understand that self-publishing was not a failure.

In my early days, I believed traditional publishing was the only path to success. Now, after nearly a decade of struggle, I realize self-publishing is just fine in my book.

And I haven’t even touched on formatting and marketing—that’s a story for another day. But when I do, I’ll make sure I have plenty of ice cream, chocolate, and Thin Mints to get me through it!