Is this what it feels like to be a writer? Sitting under the spotlight of an intimate art gallery in Santa Barbara, surrounded by the hum of creative energy and the occasional shifting of chairs, I couldn’t help but think, Yes, this is it. Years ago, when I first scribbled my way into this journey, I imagined moments like this—writing panels where words flowed as freely as the wine, where writers and readers exchanged ideas and anecdotes like currency.
The gallery was cozy, adorned with striking paintings that seemed to watch us from their frames, as if critiquing every metaphor and simile. My heartfelt thanks go to my friend, the incredibly talented Tracy Shawn, who invited me to join her and two other seasoned writers—both of whom have actual printed books, hardcovers and all, which, in the literary world, feels a little like being a local garage band opening for Springsteen. And there I was, the underdog, the Kindle-only author with big dreams. But hey, every hero’s journey needs its humble beginnings, right?
The audience—family, friends, and strangers who had somehow decided this was the best use of their evening—listened intently, some nodding in agreement, others furiously jotting notes or snapping pictures. To everyone who took the time to attend, especially those who know me personally and still came anyway, you have my eternal gratitude. Your support not only makes my life better, it keeps me sane (well, mostly).
The journey is ongoing, and I’m learning that these moments—where art, words, and community collide—are what make the struggle worthwhile. Sure, I’m not exactly clutching a stack of hardcovers with my name embossed in gold, but the day will come. Until then, I’ll keep showing up, writing stories, and imagining future panels where I’ll smugly announce, “Actually, my latest print book is available now.”
Until next time, my friends.
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