I had been writing for a long time. I had notebooks full of scribbled poems, and half started ideas. I had been blogging for years. But, writing a book wasn’t even a blip on my radar. I hadn’t even considered it.

I can’t write a book. I’m a horrible speller, my grammar is only so-so. I am the queen of malapropisms (according to my husband) and I was diagnosed with dyslexia when I was in first grade.

Then I had a dream. The real, sound-asleep-in-my-bed, kind of dream. It was weird, disturbing, and completely fantastical. I woke up and knew I wanted to write about it.

That was shortly after my son was born. I remember pushing his stroller onto the tram in Prague (where we lived the first year and half of his life) and getting an idea for a scene or a snippet of dialogue and quickly typing it into my phone with my thumb while using my other hand to hold a toy out in front of his face so he wouldn’t scream and disturb the whole tram.

It wasn’t until two years later, just a little after my daughter was born, that I finished that book. I remember we had just moved back to Seattle, where my husband grew up. We were living in a little apartment and trying to adjust to life with two kids. We were slowly starting to adjust to life back in the United States. We were dreaming about what might be next for us. I remember sitting on our hand-me-down red checkered couch and typing “The end.”

I felt so proud of myself. I felt like I had climbed mount Everest. I had written a complete story, a book. I had stolen little moments during naps and in-between errands. I had stolen a few words here and a few there until, after two years, I had finished writing a book. Something existed that hadn’t existed before.

I shared it with a few family members. I sent it to a few friends asking for their feedback. My family members read it. The friends I sent it to never responded. I don’t blame them for that. Truth be told, that book was nowhere near ready for anyone to read.

I hadn’t yet learned how to edit, how to re-write, how to carve and shape a story. I’m still not sure I’ve learned that, but I know more now than I did then.

When I finished that book, I was convinced — one hundred percent convinced — that it would never be publishable. I never even considered cleaning it up or trying to get it published. I didn’t think there was an audience for it. I’m still not sure there is.

It’s a weird little book. Or at least, it is in my head — I’m still not sure that what is in my head actually came across in text.

It’s a Middle Ages, or Middle Grades, fairy tale story with something of the feel of a fable. I know that now, but when I first finished it I had no idea how to classify it. I knew it was for kids, probably 1st - 4th grade range, but it was a little too philosophical to feel like a kids book and the vocabulary and writing style was a bit above that grade level in places. I imagined it as a book that would be read aloud, a book adults would read to kids, a book with some winks and nods towards the adults reading it.

It was also a strange book in that it was about a tooth fairy — a topic typically reserved for very young children and not entirely the age group I was targeting. Well, it is sort of about a tooth fairy. It’s about a tooth fairy in the way that A Princess Bride is about a princess bride. It’s sort of about a fairy’s journey of becoming a fairy and a boys journey of growing up, but with a lot of random magic and philosophy thrown in.

That book has sat on my hard drive untouched for a very long time.

When my son was in 1st grade (I think) I read it to him and he enjoyed it, but other than that it’s mostly just sat there, barely thought of, until recently.

This year I returned to my love of fiction with fervor. I read as much as I could and I did it largely in the genres I want to write in. I read a lot of fantasy and the fantastical. I read my first Neil Gaiman book this year, and my second, and third, and fourth, and fifth. Yeah, I’ve been on a bit of a Neil Gaiman kick.

And it taught me something. There are a lot of weird books that don’t quite fit — or that you wouldn’t think would find an audience — that do get published and are incredibly enjoyable reads that really should be published.

My first book, the one I affectionately refer to as simply “Thomas”, is not well-written, it’s not polished, it’s not worthy of being published or of an audience… as it stands right now. But, that doesn’t mean that there isn’t something there worth polishing and carving away at.

So, last week, I started editing that very rough manuscript that I “finished” seven years ago. I don’t know what will come of it, but this is me continuing to show up to the work, following curiosity back to something set aside a long time ago. This is me showing up and doing the work.

Grace and peace in the process,
Bethany