About

With my son leaning into his independence and me newly engaged, I seized the moment to dive into my writing. My fingers flew over the keyboard as I churned out my first (and second, and third) book. Where were the agents and editors I had assumed would be beating down my office door? Not in there with me, that was for damn sure. So, keeping that door firmly closed, I slunk beneath my desk and had a dramatic, pecker down, tears-pooling-in-your-ears type cry. I wrote this essay whilst eating a bowl of cookie dough under that very desk.

I quit trying to get published and underwent a complete ego death. Outside of becoming a mother it was the most transformative and incredible thing I ever did. I was free! I wrote for myself, for fun, and that was more than enough. I don’t drink alcohol, I don’t smoke anything, and therapy is very expensive, and so I write.

But then, an email popped into my inbox, eight months after I had stopped querying. It was from a literary agent. “Come on.” I giggled. You don’t need to close the loop almost a year later just to tell me no. That’s like someone who blows you off in a bar tracking you down a year later just to confirm they think you’re ugly.

I almost didn’t open the email. But then I did. “I loved your book. I think it could make people really happy. Can we set up a call to discuss?”

Well, shit. Just when I thought I was done.

And now here I am. Forty-f(trails off) years old and my debut is coming out and I’m launching a business with the dream of supporting other writers. My path has been long, the terrain, at times, seemingly determined to snap my ankle like a dry twig, but I’m as happy as a bulldog in a sunny spot — even though I’m busier than a one-armed paperhanger (another one of my grandmother’s favourite turns of phrase).