This is it. In many ways, I’ve been dreaming of this day since 3rd grade.
As a child, I wrote little stories and stick figure comic strips for years. I moved on to longer stories, writing my own books. (They weren’t very good.) I went off to college, proclaiming that I was going to become a writer.
Then life happened. I realized that writers don’t make a lot of money. I needed other jobs. Those other jobs began to take up a lot of time. I fell in love. Got married. Had kids. Worked more jobs. Writing sort of… went away.
A few years ago, I somehow got motivated again. I began to write. And write. And write. I wrote a novel and submitted it to agents. It received dozens and dozens of rejections (almost all of them form). I moved on and wrote another novel. This one… this one was big. And it was good. I could tell.
I did everything I could think of to make it right. I hired an editor. I listened to beta readers. I worked through all the various processes of editing, proofing, re-writing, editing some more, proofing some more, and so on.
And now it’s here. I can pick up a physical copy of my first published novel. It’s real.
Today is my birthday. Why don’t you go buy yourself a present? I suggest a good book. Enjoy! And let me know what you think.