Unveiling My Dream: The Emotions of Publishing My First Novel

Over the past six years, between my life’s work as a mom, homemaker, and wife (as well as a pastor’s wife, which is its own thing entirely), I’ve written a novel. A young adult fantasy novel intended to be the first in a short series. And now, I’m on the cusp of publishing—launching it to you, my future readers. For six years, I’ve worked primarily in secret. While I’ve toiled to create a world with stories, characters, and magic, the real world has gone on without any idea what I’m doing. But now, all of that will change.

In the coming months, as I prepare for a book launch, I invite you to join me as I share my journey from learning to write and re-write this book, sending my manuscript to agents and publishers, enduring what I call the “land of rejection,” to finally landing on a process called “hybrid publishing.” The best way to follow my journey and book’s progress is through my newsletter. Sign up, and you’ll be the first to receive updates, news events, and sneak peeks on my first chapters and cover art.

But for today, I thought I’d answer just one question:

What does it feel like to be publishing my first novel?

If you’ve ever ventured out in a new adventure, I'm sure you’ve felt something similar.

A few weeks ago, I went on vacation with family. As one does when traveling, I eventually stole away alone, needing a minute to myself. I stood on the shore of Flagler Beach in front of our rental—a pristine stretch of terracotta sand, quietly nestled between the spectacle of Daytona and old-world St. Augustine.

Somewhere on a lifeguard stand, a red flag waved like a warning. The surf’s up, as they say. To prove it, white and sea-green foam swallowed my feet, splashing my shorts. My toes sank into the receding sand. The wave retreated, and little bubbles popped intermittently in the sand like constellations, leaving behind a hundred holes the circumference of a toothpick.

To my right, I knew the sand stretched hundreds of miles to the tip of Florida and, to my left, the entire North American eastern seaboard. The Atlantic roared before me, the vastness of the beach and ocean overwhelming to fathom. Even so, this was only one coast of one ocean. A wave rose up, and the water splashed higher, my pockets now wet. More tiny bubbles dotted the sand.

Sandcrabs skittered in my periphery, perfectly camouflaged if it weren’t for those shiny black eyes. They danced with the waves in calculated steps, back and forth, in a waltz. The wave crashed then retreated, and when it did, a crab advanced, aiming for a pinprick dotting the sand. Life hid beneath those dots, like X’s on a treasure map. The crab’s carapace lifted as if to say, “Aha!” A claw scooped, and just before the wave could swallow his prize, he ran for cover in dry sand, his dinner secured. After he dined, he moved on, leaving behind the “wrapper.” I picked up the empty coquina shell. There were hundreds of thousands of them littering the shore. Too commonplace to make it into a tourist’s collection, too miniscule to be recycled by a hermit crab. It would be pulverized by the waves, ground to sand like the trillions before it.  

I held the empty shell the size of my fingernail and felt a pang in my chest. My heart reached like a child’s hand upward, searching for the reassuring grip of a parent, my prayer wordless and aching.

I am launching my first novel into the world, and the more I learn about the publishing industry, the more daunting the task becomes. As a reader, I saw the book market as a friendly, cheerful place, much like a favorite cozy bookstore. A charming industry filled with smiling librarians and heartwarming bookstore proprietors like Meg Ryan’s character in You’ve Got Mail. Now, as a pending author, I see a market that is the scope and size of an ocean connected to multiple oceans of content. Countless authors churn out countless more books, numbering the creatures of the sea—the vastness of the industry so complex and overwhelming that even the big, traditional publishing houses are losing from the sheer volume of books spewing into an increasingly variable market.

Tears filled my eyes as I walked the beach, shell in hand, feeling equally small. But then, my prayer stopped short when I came upon a patch of cordoned-off sand—a sea turtle nest. My breath caught in awe. It’s well established among beach-goers that a sea turtle nest is a marvelous wonder. Just out of sight lay hundreds of eggs. I watched the sand for signs of movement. Everyone does this when they come upon a nest such as this. Could this be the moment? We’ve all seen the videos online or in documentaries. When life miraculously pops out of the sand. Baby turtles (as tenacious as they are cute) dig their way to the surface. Their home calls to them, and they answer, flippering their way, exposed to gulls, pelicans, crabs, and idiot tourists. If they make it, sea turtles can have a lifespan of well over a hundred years. But only 1 in 10,000 babies ever make it to adulthood. They fight their way to their aquatic home, not because they are brave, but because they have no choice; the hope and promise of life call, and they answer.

I stare at the sand and pray, “Oh, please!” I’d love to witness such a sight. But, of course, the sand doesn’t move. The babies aren’t ready yet. I continued my walk and found another nest, then another. In the short stretch of beach, I found nine nests. Together, that’s anywhere between 900-1800 eggs. Multiply that by ten, and the odds are that only one will make it to maturity. Still, inside every egg lay the promise of life. Hope. The dream of a creature with the potential of a century-long adventure.

Standing on the beach amidst so much potential, I couldn’t help but smile. I know that feeling. It’s the feeling that propelled me to run to my computer in the middle of the night six years ago to bang out my first chapter with frenzied excitement.

The odds of my book “making it” are slim. My book may be like a coquina, a tiny, insignificant blip, like a bubble on the eastern seaboard, gaining the attention of few, and some crabs and shorebirds. And sure, even if my book is remarkable, it’s still a treacherous fight. I dream of creating art with a far reach and a long shelf-life. The sea turtle of books, beating the odds and living decades beyond its author. Shoot, I’d settle for something like an octopus, short-lived, sure, but vibrant while it lasts.

The fear of failure never eases up, and sometimes it feels almost crippling. So why bother? Why fight? The odds are so great. Failure so eminent.

Because the alternative is unthinkable. When hearing the call to adventure and life, who would ever say no? Not even a baby turtle, with 10,000-1 odds stacked against them, will ever refuse the ocean’s call. I will struggle and fight and work because there is no other way.

I love this book. I’ve spent six years with the same characters talking in my head and haven’t gotten sick of them yet. I have persevered through years of difficult odds (which I’ll share in the coming months), and this work has still endured. Already, I can see what sort of book I have in my hands. When it’s finally in yours, I think you’ll really like it.

I believe in my gut this book is like a sea turtle. Join me, and together, let’s see how far it can swim.

(photo of the sand-turtle my daughter and I made at Flagler Beach)