Eight Years in the Making: How Publishing My Debut Novel Became a Lesson in Confidence
From Perfectionism to Publication: How Fear, Faith, and a Mother's Words Transformed My Writing Journey
My mother was the first to inspire me to become an author. She made a simple but astonishing connection: if I loved books so much, why not try writing one?
But that isn’t where the eight years of drafting, Pinterest-boarding, writing, editing, and designing began. Like many adolescent girls with too much freedom on the internet, I spent years in Tumblr groups and reading fanfiction before I ever imagined my protagonist, Jignasa. And yes—she was a hallucination. Every fiction writer knows that our characters don’t politely appear; they haunt us until we tell their story.
Jignasa changed a lot over time because she was an obvious extension of myself. Whatever media I consumed shaped her personality. Looking back, I can see how unfair that was to her—especially considering how cold and confident she became in my novel, The Sin and the Boy.
Finding My Story
I didn’t take writing seriously until my freshman year of high school, when I realized that all the random one-shots needed to amount to something bigger. So I opened a dozen documents, not realizing this story would become the biggest project of my life (which wasn’t saying much at 15, with high school as my entire world).
Jignasa didn’t truly take shape until my senior year. You’d think that after three years of drafting, I’d have a clear story—but I didn’t. The first draft was about a rogue assassin trying to take down a drug cartel—a drastically different plot from the published version. Still, if I were brave enough to revisit those lost files, I’d thank them.
When I first entered the writing world, I thought first drafts had to be perfect. It turns out, the only thing a first draft has to be is written. Everything else can come afterward.
The story I was writing wasn’t the one I wanted to tell. It had many of the same elements—strong women, witty banter, epic battles—but they were just flashes of what I now call my “church in the fog” scenes.
Imagine standing on a hill, looking down at a small church surrounded by fog. You know where it is, but you’re unsure how to get there. That’s how I build my stories: I imagine a vivid scene, then figure out how the characters and plot find their way there.
So instead of erasing three years of work, I rebuilt. My assassin kept her coldness but became something otherworldly. The crime-ridden cities transformed into angelic and demonic realms. My side characters finally found their voices.
Fear, Faith, and Publication
By the time I entered college, my writing had grown stronger. Classes, professors, and peers helped refine my story. For the first time, people outside my family were excited about my book—and that made me nervous.
When family asked about progress, I could shrug it off. But when professors or classmates asked, I felt real pressure to deliver. Everyone expected something great. After all, how often do you meet a young author?
My anxiety got the best of me. Although my manuscript had gone through several rounds of (admittedly costly) editing, I rushed publication out of fear rather than confidence. Don’t get me wrong—my publisher, BookBaby, was wonderful. But looking back, I can see how fear pushed me faster than faith did.
The Sin and the Boy was printed in July 2023, right before my senior year of college. Suddenly, I was “the published author on campus.” I sold books from my dorm room, in the cafeteria, even between classes. My backpack carried more copies of my novel than textbooks. The excitement was thrilling—but underneath it all was a quiet dread: What if it wasn’t ready?
That fear silenced my creativity. For two years, I didn’t write. I called it burnout, but really, I was scared my book wasn’t good enough. If I hadn’t done it perfectly the first time, why try again?
Walking Through the Fog
Then one day, my mother called. She’s battled depression and anxiety for most of her life, and she told me something that changed everything: seeing me publish my book made her feel she hadn’t failed as a mother.
That moment broke me open. I had been ashamed of what I saw as imperfection—but to her, it was proof of success. Hers and mine.
I realized I’d been standing too long in the fog, forgetting that the church—the goal—was never perfection. It was persistence. So I moved forward. I arranged bookstore consignments, donated to libraries, ran ad campaigns, and hosted giveaways.
Now, my book has reached readers across the country—people I’ll never meet but who still carry my words with them. I’ve met coworkers inspired to chase their own creative dreams. Friends promote my work when I’m not even there. My story is finally doing what it was meant to do: connect.
I’m not quite ready to start another eight-year journey, but I can see the steeple through the fog again. And this time, I’m walking toward it with purpose—knowing that whatever lies ahead, I’ll be ready for it.
