I Never Planned on Being a Published Author

The untold story of my debut novel

Yep, you read the title right.

I—an author of two published book with another coming in the future—never planned on being a published author.

Don’t get me wrong, I have always loved to write. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been writing stories. In fact, one of my favorite childhood memories was winning a DARE short story contest in elementary school. It was the first time I remember thinking, “Huh, I might actually have a knack for this thing.”

I wrote dozens of stories throughout middle and high school in a variety of genres and formats. I built a world based off my midwestern roots that I still use in my books today, filled with characters I also still use in my current projects. Among them was my first ‘novel’ about the leads of two rival bands falling for each other. (It clocked in at about 50,000 words, so teetering on the edge of a novel and a novella, but it was the longest thing I’d ever written at sixteen years old so I like to label it as my first novel.)

Escaping into a good story, whether that was the one I was writing myself or the ones written by others, has been my favorite thing to do for as long as I can remember. But that didn’t mean I ever planned on publishing anything I wrote.

Flash forward to my senior year of high school. When I thought about my future post-graduation, truly pursuing writing never once crossed my mind. It felt like too much of a risk, some far-fetched dream. I chose a degree in a subject I equally loved but that also provided a viable path to a 9 to 5. (Said degree ending up being a double major in history and art history with an emphasis in public history—which, in all honesty, wasn’t that much more secure than writing for lots of reasons, but that slim shot at a 9 to 5 was all I needed to go for it.)

Once I got to college, I thought about taking some creative writing classes just for fun, but history degrees are notoriously writing-intensive, so my advisor advised me against taking them. And rightfully so, since I was doing so much nonfiction reading and writing that I eventually stopped enjoying reading/writing fiction at all.

So, for four years, writing became a hobby of the past, a long lost dream of my teenage years. I focused on my degree and, eventually, on my role as a student leader in the campus ministry I was a part of. My goals for my future ebbed and flowed, along with my plans. I thought about graduate school, then about full-time vocational ministry. But writing never came back into the picture in any meaningful way.

And then the pandemic hit during my last semester of undergrad.

I’m sure you can picture what happened next. Classes were shifted to online-only. I nearly lost my campus job, since most of my work had to be done in person. (I didn’t, thanks to my wonderful bosses, who managed to scrounge up a minimal amount of work I could do virtually.) My campus ministry stopped meeting in-person and went on a hiring freeze, putting my post-graduation plans on hold. Not to mention that, on top of all of that, I was recently engaged and trying to plan a wedding.

It’s been said a thousand times regarding the effect of the pandemic, but my entire life got thrown for a loop, then came to an abrupt stop. I focused on getting through my coursework, tried to plan what I could for my upcoming wedding admist all the unknowns. Other than that, the only things I really had going for me in that season was my Animal Crossing: New Horizons island and my Stardew Valley save file.

But then—writing.

The urge to create came as a whisper, a gentle tug on my heart, in the midst of feeling empty and aimless. With nothing else to do, I set up a lawn chair on the porch of the house I rented with three other roommates on a late-May afternoon, opened up a blank document on my laptop, and just went for it.

I don’t remember much of my process, if I wrote an outline or character profiles, or if I created a Pinterest board for the vibes before anything else, or if I just started typing whatever was on my heart. I do remember that it was loosely based on a story set in a coffee shop that I had started in high school, though every other detail except for the setting had changed. But ultimately, whatever I was doing, it was my lifeline. I got up every day and let myself get lost in the world I was building and the characters I was creating. It was my only sense of routine, the bright spot in all my gloomy days.

Time went on. I moved out of my college rental and into the home I would share with my soon-to-be husband. I got married. I still had no plan, but I kept going back to writing, proving it wasn’t just a temporary fixation. I had thoroughly fallen in love with the story I was telling and wanted to do nothing else but focus on it. When I asked my husband if I could keep focusing on writing, he graciously told me yes, we’d make it work.

I spent the rest of the year writing. Then revising. Then editing. And what I ended up with was my debut novel, the story of my heart, the story I wrote for my younger self—The Cracks That Form Us.

As I wrote, I never entertained the thought of publishing it. I just needed to get the words out first. It wasn’t until I finally typed The End for the last time on that manuscript that I decided I didn’t want it to just sit on my laptop and collect dust. I felt like God had placed this story on my heart, and so I needed to do something with it.

I tried going the traditional route, and let me tell you, friends, querying is not for the faint of heart. It’s absolutely brutal. My season of querying was one of the most difficult times in an already difficult season of my life, but looking back on it, I don’t regret it one bit. It grew me as a writer, and as a person, which I’m forever grateful for.

Unfortunately, the querying didn’t work out. Which, I have to admit, was confusing and a little heartbreaking. I started to doubt whether or not I was really supposed to be pursuing this, if writing really was my calling. When I told my husband about my doubts and that I wasn’t sure where I need to go next, though, he wasn’t phased. With a calm confidence I didn’t possess, he said, “So you’re going to self publish, then.”

I only knew a little bit about self publishing, but I knew enough to have lots of reservations. There was the financial investment to consider, and the fact that I had absolutely no idea how to self publish a novel. But, once again, my husband was unwavering. He believed in me, even before I believed in myself.

Truly, it’s only by the grace of God and my husband that I have not only one but two books out in the world. I honestly have no idea what I would have done if it wasn’t for his encouragement and belief in me. The thought of it never fails to make me a blubbering mess.

Anyway, now here I am, a year and a half later, with both my debut, The Cracks That Form Us, and my sophomore novel, The Paths We Carve out in the world. (The story of the latter book is for another day). When I look back on the path that brought me to where I am today, it reminds me that even when life throws curve balls at me and all my plans get thrown out the window, it’s okay to pivot. To not have a plan, to take a season to seek the Lord for next steps.

If you’re in a similar season, you’re not alone. I’ve been there, and sometimes I feel like I’m still there, figuring things out as I go. Just keep taking things one step at a time.

Until next time,

Abby