Today I sent my book into the world again. Not the whole world—just a handful of inboxes belonging to people who hold the keys to dreams I’m trying very hard not to think about. Querying is a strange kind of hope: quiet, stubborn, and slightly unhinged. But it’s also a reminder that stories don’t grow unless we let them go.
There’s a moment right after you hit “send” where your brain becomes a carnival ride you didn’t agree to board. One second you’re convinced your book is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever made, and the next you’re Googling "Can you die from refreshing your email too much?" (You can’t. Probably.)
And yet—beneath the chaos—there’s this steady, almost reverent feeling. A sense that something is shifting. That maybe, just maybe, the story you wrote in the quiet corners of your life is ready to stand on its own.
I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately: the difference between writing a book and releasing it. Writing is intimate. It’s you and the page and the characters who whisper their secrets at 2 a.m. Releasing it is… well, it’s like handing your heart to a stranger and hoping they’re gentle with it.
But here’s the truth I keep circling back to: I believe in this book. I believe in the girl who survived more than she should have. I believe in the man who loved someone enough to honor her even after she was gone. I believe in the messy, beautiful, complicated ways people find each other when they need it most.
And I believe in the version of me who wrote it—tired, hopeful, terrified, determined.
So today I sent my book into the world again. Not because I’m fearless, but because I’m learning that courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s the willingness to keep going even when your hands shake.
If you’re in this stage too—refreshing your inbox, bargaining with the universe, trying not to spiral—just know you’re not alone. We’re all out here, quietly unhinged together, believing in stories that haven’t found their homes yet.
And maybe that’s its own kind of magic.
