Growing Up And Into Moxy

It's 10:29 pm on the eve of my debut novel being published. So I'm having a lot of thoughts.

All I ever wanted to do was write a novel. I started the same story—my story—in 2003, 2007, 2009, 2014, 2020, and 2022. I never had the stamina to write it and live normally at the same time.

During the pandemic, I decided it was time. I didn’t think I’d live to see another point in my life where I had the opportunity to write, to let it all come up, without being required to put on a uniform and serve dinner to the general population with a smile.

But it was still too much. A month in, after telling everyone I talked to that I was finally writing my manuscript for real, I didn’t have the strength to relive, retell, and re feel so many aspects of what I’ve worked hard to distance myself from. I failed, again.

So I began selling my art. That felt more manageable. It was a hell of a side quest. It made me trust myself, and my confidence began to grow—though in its infancy. After that, I took two straight years of Bikram yoga classes every day. I learned to teach and was in the best mental and physical shape of my life. I added it to the list of things I never thought I’d have the power to do but now do every day.

After that, I saw my dear mentor Nancy one last time before her passing. The last thing she said to me was:

“It’s time to write your book.”

So I hope she’s up there somewhere, as present and alive as she is in the pages of this work. In September 2023, I started my book for real. I would have such panic attacks writing that I’d make stuffed animal piles and kid-like tents out of furniture just to get through it. I ate endless giant bowls of spaghetti because it’s my ultimate comfort food.

I met Jesse Leon, a brilliant author who is a very important part of this puzzle. I was sitting in a meeting, and he was speaking about how his book was coming out next month. The room stopped. We talked, and after that, we met for coffee. He was proof that I could do it—that I had the power to put that impossible dream in front of me as an existing reality.

Last January, my childhood friend Megan and I were having a random text catch-up. I told her about how I had written a book all year but was afraid of it. She asked what it was about, and I took a deep breath—a chance, really—and told her the truth of what it was all about. I was shaking so hard I thought I would throw up. Because that’s what walking through the terror and shame of being judged feels like. All she asked was if she could read it.

I told her it was 238,000 words and that would be a huge undertaking. And like… it would be a lot. And that it probably wasn’t very good. And since she has an education and all, and I don’t know where to put a comma, she might lose her mind in the messiness of it. But there was none of that. She embraced my disaster of a manuscript. She made it a part of her life. After that, she gave it elegance, attention to detail, and a perfection that I would never be able to create.

A week later, she asked if her mother could read it with her. Since her mom was always such a safe person to me, I agreed. Within three weeks, they had both read the book cover to cover. They told me I had something special and important. And they weren’t just being nice. Megan is a Virgo; she can’t lie about what she’s thinking.

Megan made my manuscript her full-time job. She put an entire year of her life into this book with me. We got it from 238,000 to 124,000 words. If I add or remove a line in the entire document, she knows and asks me about it. Every single day of this process, I’ve questioned if I’m on the right path if I’m doing the right thing—and I remember that she just walked into my life and did some fairy godmother magic to make this work the best it could be.

(Same with my designers, but that’s a story for another blog.)

Please buy, read, and review my debut novel, Moxy, which will be available worldwide on Amazon starting at 4:30 PM PST on Saturday, January 18th.