I want to give a shoutout today to three awesome writers I’ve had the pleasure of meeting twice now. Both times they have brought some much-needed wind for my sails—by providing living proof that real, honest Midwesterners can make this writing thing work. And also just by being delightful people to talk to.
Their names are Nicole Baart, Kimberly Stuart, and Tosca Lee, and you should go buy all of their books.
I first met them last January (February?) when they came as the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pens to a bookstore in Lincoln. At this point I was trudging toward the finish line of my first novel (which would prove to be still woefully far away—another 5-6 months, to be precise (endings are hard)).
But finish it I did, a few months before they came again for the Nebraska Book Festival. And though I’m not one to draw attention to myself (which I’m going to have to get over if I want to sell my books someday), I tagged them on Instagram a few days before the festival to share the news, expecting…I don’t know—a round of petty likes, a conversation starter if I got the chance to talk to them again.
Come festival time, I dragged my husband and another friend along to the day-before pregame event at Zipline brewery, not sure if any of the festival writers would actually be there, and therefore pleasantly surprised to see the three of them hanging out at the bar.
Now, like I said, I’m not one to draw attention to myself. I’m also very bad at mingling (that’s what Josh is for). We ordered our beers and found a little space for ourself in the rather small, rather crowded place, while I built up my liquid courage.
Then someone tapped on my shoulder, and there was Kimberly Stuart, saying excuse me, I think I owe you a hug. And then came Nicole and Tosca, all there to share hugs and congratulations, treating me all-in-all like a minor celebrity.
That’s right. They recognized the face of one wide-eyed fangirl from, like, eight months ago.
In case you don’t realize how much of a godsend moment this was, let me tell you.
I’ve been on this writing sabbatical (that sounds better than unemployed-by-choice) for a little over a year now, and I spend most of my days alone. Whether holed-up in my office or out at a coffee shop, it’s been pretty much just me and the characters in my head, hoping with zero guarantees that this will all add up to something worthwhile.
(Don’t get me wrong—I love it. If ever this turns into a reliably paying job, I would gladly do it full-time. It’s just a little lonely sometimes).
And now, the writing part done, I’ve been scouring the internet to find literary agents who might be interested and sending my queries off with a wing and a prayer, one email among hundreds in an over-saturated inbox, hoping to catch the attention of the right person on the right day—and really the right moment of the right day, when they’re in just the right mood.
So—to be recognized, acknowledged, celebrated (when for all they know, I could be a terrible writer). That was pretty heckin’ wonderful.
They are pretty heckin’ wonderful. As are their books, which you should go buy now. Or at least check them out from the library.
