My Cover Story for BVM

Ask any writer at what point they knew they wanted to be a writer, and more often than not, you’ll hear the realization came during their formative years. Storytelling is certainly something I knew was part of me since childhood. My mother was a teacher, and my father was—and still is—a writer, so books were our entertainment as well as one of the ways we bonded. I also grew up in a military family, and the frequent moves (as in, thirteen within twelve years) didn’t do much for my social life, but they did prove that characters in books could also be friends, and I never had to leave them behind.

More than anything, I loved to read. Well past my grade level, and in nearly every genre, I was the kid with a novel hidden inside my text book (I sure thought I was clever!), the girl who read while walking home from school (how did I not get run over?), and the one who carried a book with me for every outing (nothing happening out there could possibly be as interesting as what was going on between those pages).

In fifth grade, a teacher assigned a project to write a story in the style of Greek mythology. Well, I was in my element, as the year before, I’d moved back to the States after living in Greece for four years. When I got that assignment back, it included a note from the teacher. “Wonderful job! You’re clearly a writer.” I’m paraphrasing, but that was the gist of it, and I’ve never forgotten that moment.

Years went by, and I continued to read but rarely wrote stories. Oh, I was always making them up—I lived in a constant daydream where I was anyone but me—the mixed girl who dealt with racism. The new kid at school pretty much every single year. The awkward teenager who had no clue how to make friends once we finally settled into the same town and the same house midway through ninth grade.

I took a creative writing class in high school and again realized how much I loved bringing life to words on a page. When my aunt approached me to help her write a book on our family history, I dove into the research. Such a project would have been exciting for just about anyone, as my great-uncles were the Ringling Bros. (yes, I am a circus freak) and my grandmother was a Cartier (from the jewelry company).

In my twenties, I freelanced for a small newspaper. My first article was picked up for syndication by two larger publications, and I was hooked on the feeling. Unfortunately, my journalistic career was shortened when I became a single mother not long after and needed something more reliable.

Around the same time, I decided to try writing my first novel (emphasis on try). A few chapters in, I reached out to another aunt, who was a well-known novelist, to get her feedback. Let’s just say, she was honest! The story was terrible, but according to her, my writing style had potential. For a young woman who had spent fifteen years convinced this was what I was made for, however, it felt like a devastating blow. What do you mean, I need practice? You mean to tell me my very first attempt isn’t bestseller material? I took her words to heart, but not in the way I should have. Instead, I was terrified that because I wasn’t good enough then, I wasn’t good enough to keep trying.

For the next decade or so, I focused on my career, which was in an industry that provided a lot of fodder for character creation and dramatic storylines. However, my storytelling was relegated to the dinner table, where I loved to entertain with the kind of tales that arise from dealing with all manner of people in some truly wild scenarios. Working in property management was a life lesson in psychology and human behavior. My dad, the writer, would frequently ask if I was doing any writing of my own. The answer was always no. I felt like a professional failure after job hopping for years, unhappy with what I was doing. Writing novels was the one thing I really believed I was created for, but if I failed at that too, what did I have left? I purposely kept this dream just out of reach, on the shelf for when I was certain I could do it justice.

Then, I almost died.

I developed a cough over Labor Day weekend in 2011, then a fever. Over the next several months, my temperature wavered between 102 and 107 day in and day out, I lost weight (which I hadn’t had any to spare), and developed other symptoms. I’d been to the doctor and the hospital and told twice I had pneumonia, but the treatments they provided didn’t help. In February, I was hospitalized and finally diagnosed with a rare and incredibly invasive case of tuberculosis. One lung completely eaten away, the other halfway so, comatose, on dialysis, organs shutting down. My family was advised to prepare for my death.

Miraculously, I survived. I ended up having four lung operations and a year of therapy, but all I could think of was everything I wouldn’t have been able to teach my daughter if I hadn’t lived. From there, the premise of my first novel was born. Beauty in the Bittersweet tells the story of a young woman who loses her mother unexpectedly right as her own life is falling apart. Through journals her mother kept, the daughter is able to glean wisdom and come to understand her mother’s faith.

I started writing this story back in 2012, but life did as life does, and although I felt it had promise, I put it to the side. Then, 2020 showed up. We were moving cross-country to Raleigh to be closer to my parents during a health crisis while the world was shutting down. Settled into our new home at the end of April and with my own vulnerabilities because of my history of tuberculosis, I began thinking about what I’d do for the foreseeable future.

Then that manuscript came to mind. I’d only gotten a few chapters in and had no real idea of the storyline (I’m a pantser, not a plotter), but I pulled it out, dusted it off, and realized I liked what I’d started. Like, really liked it, even after so many years. With not much else to do, I spent the next nine months finishing the first draft while also working as an editor for a small publishing house. After some self-edits, I decided to seek an agent to represent it.

I admit, what happened next isn’t normal, but I didn’t know better. I queried an agent I’d Googled. She was with a top agency for Christian writers and seemed an excellent choice. She was the only agent I pitched, and then I sat back and waited. I had no idea that finding an agent involved potentially hundreds of queries. But my naiveté paid off, and a few weeks later, she requested my full manuscript.

After signing with Barb Roose of Books & Such Literary Management, the real work began. Multiple rounds of rewrites, conversations with various editors, going before publication boards only to be passed over, and the entire process sometimes felt like sludging through concrete. But when it happens, everything happens all at once, and we were finally debating covers and title options and release dates. For this book, which is part romance but also the story of the love between a mother and daughter, we chose a Mother’s Day release. This has also become book one in a four-book series full of characters who have grown to mean so much to me.

Since then, my agent requested a romance, which became a romantic comedy I am hopelessly in love with. I also pitched a script idea to a movie director, and she immediately worked it into her schedule.

I am so grateful for the opportunities I’ve been given. My journey shares similarities with other author friends, but each of our experiences are full of highs and lows, ebbs and flows, and my favorite thing about the writer community is how we are all here to cheer each other on.