Publishing and Other Processes

We’re still in the typesetting phase of the publishing process, but we are now less than 5 months away from the release of my book and I cannot even begin to describe what this feels like. I can’t describe how exhilarating it is to watch as my next big step as a writer continues to come true. I’ve been published before on the mico-scale; I’ve had individual pieces of work published, as you can see from my Individual Publications page. And I’ve self-published books before. But I have never had a manuscript accepted by a press and gone through the publishing process, each step leading towards the release of my debut book of poetry.

There’s this thing that happens when you’re a dreamer: you live your life looking always outward, searching around you for any potential paths that could lead to where you want to be. You pick up all of the pieces of information you can along the way, you take notes, you ask questions, you push and push and push through the doubt, the imposter syndrome, the fear, the rejection, the growing pains, and always in the back of your mind is this nagging voice of negativity that says your efforts are pointless, that even if you did finish a book, no one would want to read it anyway.

And still, you dream. You set goals. You keep working because even deeper in your mind and in your gut is another voice, a quiet whisper, a barely even audible sound that tells you what you feel to be true: someone somewhere will appreciate your work. Even if only one person reads your work and is touched by it, then the whole writing process will have been worth it. This is what you hope for as an aspiring writer: to have just one person find something of value in your work. And it takes an enormous amount of faith to even get to the place where you believe that much, let alone that an entire team of editors will want to publish you.

And now the looking outward, the taking of different paths, the resilience and pushing have lead me to this moment. My manuscript is going to enter the world this year. In a matter of months. I have a cover already picked out and designed. All editing has been completed. These poems are “done,” polished, finalized. And while there is still a lot to be done before the release date, there is also a culmination of what has already been done, and I can hardly believe the size of it.

My book has been blurbed by a handful of writers I love and respect, poets who have inspired me in so many ways. I have readings being scheduled and planned. All the things I only ever dreamed I would do as a writer, I’m now seeing them unfold.

I’m overwhelmed by this today. Overwhelmed by the fact that just a few years ago, back on this date in 2019, I was still married to an abusive ex, I was living in the midst of horrific traumas, and I was utterly ignorant of the trauma that would come in the months to follow. I never would have believed anyone who told me that, in May of 2022, I would be only a few short months away from having my debut book released. I never would have believed that I would have even survived all of what I went through over 2019 and the first half of 2020. I still carry wounds and fears, but among them all are little blooming flowers that remind me what I have in my heart and body: poetry.

I have poetry. I have writing.

And I will continue to write until I can’t anymore. It’s my seed of promise. My ritual of self-making and self-discovery. My armor.