In 2015, while performing in Witness for the Prosecution, I chatted with a costar’s spouse who turned out to be a published author. He connected me to his publisher, and I dove headfirst into the submission process.

They liked me. They really liked me! I was accepted. (A true instance of right place at the right time.)

After seven years of writing, revising, and querying agents, it felt like I’d finally arrived. I was a real author. A published author. I was going to make a living doing what I loved.

Two books and three years later, I was glad I hadn’t quit my day job.

I was published through a small press—a traditional publisher operating on a modest scale, with no requirement to work through a literary agent.

“Modest”? Try Random House downsized to one feline intern with editorial control and a litter box full of rejection slips. Me-ouch!

The experience offered valuable insight into traditional publishing, but when the spotlight faded, so did the support. I took on the task of keeping the books alive, which led to a pivotal decision: full ownership of the process, from page to promotion.

So, after navigating self-publishing for three books why am I chasing traditional publishing once again for book number four? Because this time I'm aiming higher than the small press circuit. I want the full literary spa treatment: Random House, actual editors with faces in a real office without felines. And a hot stone massage would be great.

After years of reaching a modest (yes, that word again) audience, it's time to call in reinforcements. I’ve birthed three books—each its own unruly child; and now a fourth is kicking at the walls. But I haven’t raised them into mature, responsible adults. They need guidance. Maybe even a marketing department.

And here’s the shift: I’ve finally made peace with my imposter syndrome. It still sends postcards, but I don’t invite it to dinner anymore. The mask is off, and it turns out it was mostly duct tape and self-doubt anyway.

I’ve built worlds, shaped characters, and told stories that somehow manage to resonate, even when I’m convinced I’ve just rearranged nouns and hoped for the best. I’m not just writing—I’m authoring. Which sounds suspiciously like “adulting,” but for books.

And yes, I want these stories to reach more readers. Not just the loyal few (I love you) who’ve stuck with me through genre detours and surreal plot twists. I’m ready for the crowd. Or at least a slightly larger book club that doesn’t meet in my imagination.

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