I think I just finished the first draft of my book.

I say think because I’m letting the ending sleep tonight. Tomorrow I might wake up and want to soften a line, move a moment, or trust a quieter pause. But still—there’s a beginning, a middle, and an end. And for the first time, it all exists in the same place.

What makes this even more surreal is that this isn’t actually my first book.

Almost ten years ago, I wrote my first one as a wedding gift for Bronson—a small collection of poems called Dear Lover. It was intimate, personal, and never meant for anyone else’s eyes. Just words written from love, given quietly, and held close. That book taught me I could finish something. That I could put feeling into form and let it exist outside of my head.

This second book asked for more.

A story. A longer arc. Patience. Commitment. And characters who stayed with me longer than I expected. Somewhere near the final chapters, I realized I was writing slower—not because I didn’t know what happened next, but because I wasn’t ready to let them go. I was an emotional mess drafting those last pages. Fully aware that once I typed the end, my time with them—at least in this version—would be over.

Somewhere in the middle of all of this, I found an old note I’d written to myself years ago. It simply said:

It was the kind of note you write to yourself without realizing how much you’ll need it later. Simple, honest, and quietly brave—like a reminder to trust your own taste and tell the story only you could.

Reading it now stopped me in my tracks. Because without consciously trying to, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing all along.

And that surprised me.

This story lived with me for years in fragments—scenes, ideas, moments that would tap me on the shoulder and then politely wait while life happened. And life did happen. Responsibilities. Detours. Pauses that made sense at the time. What I didn’t realize then was that all of it was feeding the story. Giving it depth. Giving it truth. The story never left—it was just quietly becoming richer alongside me.

Then somewhere along the way, I realized I’m turning 40 this year. And suddenly, the excuses felt thin. Not in a harsh way—just clear. If I didn’t finish it now, I never would. And I wanted to meet this version of myself knowing I followed through.

So I did.

This isn’t the polished version. It’s not perfect. It’s a little rough, a little tender, and very much in need of a good editor’s eye. But it’s whole. And that feels like everything.

Next comes the careful part—polishing, refining, finding the right editor, and learning how to release something I’ve held so closely. Publishing it so I can finally share this story with the world.

But tonight, I’m letting myself sit in this moment. Missing the characters already. Letting the pride settle. Letting the gratitude arrive. Letting myself remember how long this dream has been quietly unfolding.

The first draft exists.

And somehow, that feels like both an ending—and a beginning.

Love,

Honey