books and bags
I’m in the home stretch of revising the first book in my series before beginning copy/line edits, and it feels like running the final leg of a marathon with the finish line just barely in sight. I’m ready to cross it—ready for this book to be done and out in the world—but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t still savoring the changes I’ve made. Without my editor, I know for a fact it wouldn’t be anywhere near the state it’s in now. I couldn’t be more thankful.
This process, though rewarding, has been long and unrelenting. Staring at your own words over and over—examining them from every angle—is like holding a mirror up to your own brain for months on end. You start to notice all the imperfections, the places you tried too hard, or not hard enough. And somehow, through the magic of revision (and an editor with endless patience), you come out with a story that feels like it might just belong to the world, rather than your secret scribbled-up notebooks.
It’s an odd juxtaposition, editing this book that I began while in danger, while my personal life is in a place it’s never been before: safe.
After years spent with someone who treated me like a footnote, being in a relationship with someone who genuinely respects me is almost disorienting. It’s strange how quickly you get used to being dismissed or ignored, how you start to believe the narrative they feed you about your worth. And then someone comes along who listens, who values your thoughts, your dreams, your weird quirks—and suddenly you feel like a real person again. It’s comforting and terrifying all at once, like waiting for the other shoe to drop but hoping maybe this time it won’t.
I dropped off my yearly bags of toiletries to a local shelter. It’s a tradition I started a while back, and it’s become the one thing I truly look forward to every holiday season. Christmas is hard for me. The magic it once held is buried under memories of abuse and sadness, and no amount of glittering lights or carols has been able to bring it back. But those bags? They give me a sense of purpose. This year, I couldn’t be as lavish as I was in 2023, and that stung in a way I wasn’t expecting. But even so, I reflected on how thankful I am to be able to do it at all.
There was a time when I couldn’t. When I was scraping together nickels and pennies from the sidewalk to buy day-old bread from the sandwich shop downstairs. A loose cigarette or two. Maybe a $1 chicken sandwich from Wendy’s. (Remember when those shits cost a dollar? Pepperidge Farms remembers.)
Back then, the idea of giving anything was laughable. I had nothing to give but my time, hours spent in the park, doing what I could. Now, I have a little more than that—not much more, but enough to fill a few bags with soap, toothpaste, and warm socks. And that small act makes me realize just how far I’ve come, even if the journey doesn’t always feel like progress.
It’s easy to take things for granted. A bed to rest my head in at night. A supportive partner. The ability to drop off a bag of necessities without worrying it will leave you hungry. The holidays are a time for reflection, and this year I’m reflecting on how far I’ve come—not just in my writing, but in my life. It’s messy and imperfect, but it’s mine, and I’m learning to be proud of that.
For now, I’ll keep revising, keep giving, and keep learning what it means to feel whole again. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find a little Christmas magic in the process.