After what's felt like a thousand years trapped in a cover formatting nightmare, I've finally uploaded my books to Ingram Spark.

This is the portal. The gate. The shimmering threshold through which bookstores both mighty and minuscule can now summon my work onto their shelves.

Will Barnes & Noble erupt in spontaneous applause and stock my books in every aisle? Will Walmart build a shrine? Will Target whisper my name into the wind?

Nope.

What does it mean, then?

It means I must become the messenger. I must reach out to each store, one by one, no shortcuts, no magic. Just me, standing in front of a bookstore, asking them to love me.

And I’ve begun. The Books-A-Million in my Tennessee town has requested to stock my titles through their corporate office. They’re even planning a book signing. Soon, I’ll sit at a folding table beneath a banner with my name, signing copies while sipping lukewarm coffee and pretending not to cry.

Lately, my life has been books. Writing them. Reading them. Occasionally threatening to burn them.

Two weeks ago, I got my first round of developmental edit notes from my new editor. I opened the Word doc, saw the hundreds of comments, and immediately curled up on my office sofa like the accidental witness to nude bingo. I rocked gently, whispering, “I can do this,” while contemplating whether I should fake my own death instead.

Rewrite? Add? Delete? Make my characters more likeable? Fix the timeline? Sure. Just as soon as I recover from the existential paper cut this edit delivered.

But that day? That day was for mourning.

I had to seriously consider ending my writing career and maybe taking up something simpler, like underwater welding or scraping gum off movie theater seats.

How do I feel now, after surviving the process?

Strangely…good. Like I’ve wrestled a literary crocodile and lived to tell the tale. I agreed with 95% of her notes, and why shouldn't I, she’s edited hundreds of books, and I think she can hear past perfect tense approaching before it even hits the page. But what really soothed my brain were the little love notes she tucked between the carnage: I really love this. I spat my coffee when I read this. That girl needs some "action", LOL.

Next comes round two. But this time, I won’t lose a day.

No cocooning myself in a fuzzy blanket, praying it absorbs my will to live. No dramatic sighs into the void.

I’m ready. Ready to wrestle that scaly beast again. Ready to make book #4 my boldest, strangest, and proudest chaos yet.