Once upon a time...

Colour image of a desktop with a small desk calendar and a box holding papers and various office supplies. Taped or pinned up all around are small pieces of paper with notes and quotes.

One upon a time, I wrote a book.

Well. I thought I wrote a book. I did write a LOT. And I printed it out. And I workshopped it with some trusted friends. I sent it in whole or in part to some ‘beta-readers’ and gobbled up the feedback like a hungry, hungry hippo.

Then I started again.

I mean, I didn’t start over completely, but I took in a lot of the input and spent the best part of a year reviewing, re-drafting, adding, and deleting. I also spent a lot of time reading ‘how-to-publish-a-book’ manuals. I signed up for writing workshops. I started following editors and other folks in the publishing industry. I subscribed to literary journals.

I did ALL THE THINGS.

Folx - I read the fucking acknowledgements of all the best books in my house and y’all - I have a lot of fucking books. And I don’t keep the shitty ones.

Like the people-pleasing, feral Gen-X, eldest daughter who would rather DIE than disappoint anyone, I prepared in the only way I know how.

Like an absolute fucking maniac.

I printed out hard copies (cause in 2019 you still had to send actual printed copies of manuscripts to places?) I built a spreadsheet to track my submissions. I bought special envelopes with cardboard inserts so the pages wouldn’t get bent. I signed up for writing contests to ‘test’ some of my content. I spent hours preparing proposals and cover letter submissions for each publisher, agent or editor. And then, and only then, I prepared for the inevitable rejections I would have to endure before it got picked up or someone expressed interest.

The first part happened fast.

The second part never actually materialised.

In the process, I shifted my focus and put my energy into other writing. At work, on my blog and platforms like Medium. And I had some moderate successes. Articles got great engagement and a few were picked up by on-line publications, which felt like a step in the right direction. At minimum, it felt like validation. So, despite the ongoing trickle of rejections - or more often, the quiet of the abyss that comes after you send 400 pages out by post - I remained convinced that writing was something that I could, and would, and should do.

And I did.

And then the pandemic happened, and we all hunkered down. And while I continued to get opportunities to write and speak on topics of interest and experience, I was spending a LOT of time in my home office. Printed copies of The Fine Print (my draft title) sat stacked and printed on the bottom shelf of my bookshelf, gathering dust. Before the pandemic, I would see them on my work-from-home days. I’d catch a glimpse of them, from the corner of my eye and pause just long enough to wonder ‘what if?’

It felt like seeing an old boyfriend who was sweet and had potential, but required the kind of work that was just not something I could take on. And looking back at old high-school and prom photos, I’d imagine what could have been if only… Daydreams where everything worked out, and he went to therapy, and his mum loved me for being ‘different’ from all his other girlfriends, and actually got his dad to stop leering at me after he had a couple of beers.

The 2020 version of this was a letter saying ‘your manuscript got waylaid in the mail room and we only just found it, and we love it and here is a bajillion dollars so you can quit your day job, travel, work anywhere on your schedule and live a life of unimaginable freedom and joy…’

That was the extent of the effort I was putting into ‘my book.’

Until a neighbour - a professional editor - wrote her own fiction book. I took it as a sign, and did something us hyper-independent, figure-it-out-on-your-own-because-asking-for-help-is-a-sign-of-weakness women rarely did: I reached out and asked her (really, really, really nicely) to look at part of my book. She graciously accepted.

What happened next was indeed life-changing - but not in the way I expected. Certainly not in the way I wanted. Absolutely nothing like the imagined dream-sequences that had been filling my head since the last time I put in any real effort.

It was December of 2020, and we sat (at an appropriate social distance) in my front room. She asked permission to give me feedback and kept doing so as I attempted to take it all in. And in the gentlest, kindest, most Irish way possible, she delivered a brutal truth:

“Leah - where are you in this story? I can’t find you. I can only find what you want me to know and see and hear…”

My response?

“Look around,” I said, as I swept my hands around the immaculately clean, holiday-decorated room. With a manicured Christmas tree that the kids weren’t allowed to touch, the perfectly curated and thoughtful decorations, appropriate to the overall ‘holiday vibe’, but still within the colour palette for the room “It’s all a show…”

And there it was.

I had managed to write a book - a memoir for fucks’ sake - about the most tumultuous and vulnerable decade of my life to date, and not only was I not the main character, I did not even make the fucking ensemble!

I was the narrator. I was observing and recounting — to others, for others — my own life story.

And something cracked open inside me.

Since then, a million things have happened. Happy and sad and impossible and joyful. I have experienced some of the best and worst things since that conversation. I am sure there are newer best and worst moments ahead. Some I know are coming - but I don’t know when. Some will be surprises of the best possible kind. Some will hit me like a freight train.

And whatever happens next? It will happen to the protagonist. The hero. The main character.

And I will continue writing. Capturing bits of my life to share. So far, 2026 is off to a flying start. I have already written more in the last six weeks than I have in the last six years.

And while the desk changes and the computer needs occasional upgrades, my immediate surroundings are largely the same. The photo above is from my home office two-houses-ago. The home office upstairs from the aforementioned immaculately decorated front room. And from this desk, in this home, things are far less immaculate but the important things have stayed the same. The little notes I have written to myself. The quotes I love. The notes and gifts from friends that act as both anchor and compass, including my first rejection email. A short, printed “thanks, but no-thanks”.

A note that says no and reminds me I am “a talented writer, with a strong voice and a powerful story to tell…”

And that? That is giving ‘main-character’ energy.

Let’s see what’s next.