I healed my heart, chased my joy, and before I knew it, I had a book.
It was a crisp, breezy October morning when the story began. The trees beyond my window were fireworks of multicolor foliage, and the cloud-speckled sky overhead was several shades of cerulean.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
Despite the perfect weather and boundless opportunities beyond the walls of my bedroom, I felt very lost and very lonely. It had been one year out of college, one year in eating disorder recovery, and far too long since I’d approached anything in life with a fearless heart.
When I was in high school, I created art daily. I experimented with every medium, from doodles to dance. However, the practice that resonated with me the most was writing. It had always been writing. Ever since I realized words could build worlds, I was completely enraptured with it. Stories grew like wildflowers in my brain, blooming until their petals would fall onto paper.
My imagination was a limitless space. It was pure freedom, untethered from every Earthly illusion. In the void of my mind, I could paint other planets and live on them outside the time stream. I could become a new person with every chaotic wave of inspiration, embodying an endless array of wildly diverse characters. I could be a fairy with strange elemental powers, a misfit alien far from home, or a vampire becoming accustomed to the taste of blood. I could be the damsel, the knight, the queen, or the hunter. This inky, starless dimension of all consuming chaos was a warm hug. Here, I felt safe, because at this time, my comfort zone expanded to nearly every corner of existence.
Then, it all changed. The weight and pressure of this world began to build. Slowly, Earth mutated into a realm of fear and uncertainty, and it spread like an infection. It swam up through my veins, blackening my blood with terror. I became afraid, and helplessly unable to stop the withering of my wildflowers.
I stopped writing, I stopped reading, and I stopped engaging with my imagination, because my physical body was in desperate need of attention. I postponed venturing into other dimensions, and grounded myself here, because my health was in jeopardy and my mind was in no state to travel. As much as I missed creating, and as much as I missed art, I needed to be with my human self for a while.
“A while” ended in October of 2022.
The Start of A New Story
The voices of new characters had been quietly beckoning me for some time. In my early recovery stages, they were my uplifting inner voice. They were the love interests gently reminding me of my beauty. They were the side characters sending lighthearted jokes. They were bewitching villains telling me to prioritize my healing above all else. Now, as my body strengthened and my mind mended, these voices began to invite me into a new adventure.
I gladly accepted the invitation.
Just as I did during my adolescence, I pulled out my cell phone and typed away in Google Docs. If I had opened my laptop, I might have spooked myself into feeling like I had to craft something market-worthy. Society is so saturated with visions of virality, and I didn’t want to fall into that spiral. I just wanted to go on an adventure with a cast of characters like best friends to me.
The words flowed like water. I didn’t have to set timers or badger myself with a strict writing routine. I didn’t have to coax myself to the document, hyped up on caffeine. This story was not a story. It was a journey into another world. As my consciousness traveled, my fingers translated the sequences of events into a record. That record grew, and before I knew it, I had upwards of one hundred thousand words on my hands.
I’d attempted to write two novels before this, but these were acts of desperation, not love. I wrote them with every intention to submit to literary agents, because I wanted to chase my childhood dream of becoming an author. Sadly, because I was so concerned about querying them, they were cornered and suffocated. They were shoved into the box I believed would make them likable.
The third novel, the adventure I’d embarked on, was written without such intentions. Iwrote this one for me, because I couldn’t keep it inside anymore.The colors, sounds, and characters were simply too alive. The moments I experienced were too special to me. I didn’t want to leave them behind. I wanted a physical record of them, a gateway back, ever open and ever available.However, I knew — with utmost certainty — that I’d never let a soul beyond my own read these words.Something about them felt sacred, and most sacred things are kept secret.This novel would be my secret. It would be infused with my essence, extra-concentrated and completely authentic.
How terrifying it would be… to let the world see me unmasked.
As I wrote, I got to know each character like I would a beloved friend. I learned their favorite colors, scents, and songs. I made Spotify playlists, Amazon wishlists, and even grocery preferences. In the astral planes between our realm and theirs, I asked them about their lives, fears, hopes, and dreams. These people rapidly became real. Even if the details I’d learned never made it into the final manuscript, learning them would forever be worth it.
I baked cookies and ate them with my characters. This definitely helped on the eating disorder recovery front. I couldn’t possibly deny myself chocolate chips if I was sharing them with the kindest, gentlest, and most supportive cast. I went to new places with their presences alongside me, allowing their bravery to inspire mine.
Even in a world I’d become afraid of, I felt strong with my characters at my side. I shared my life with these people. I welcomed them into my world, as they welcomed me into theirs.
The Possibility of Sharing
Only after the story, my gateway, was complete did I consider the impossible possibility of sharing it. Not with strangers, of course. I sent it to my grandmother, who has always been my most enthusiastic supporter. When I was a child, she’d read my childlike scribblings like they were Jane Austen novels. As I grew, she remained my biggest fan, and insisted I do something brave and worthwhile with my passion. To this day, she is still the first to read everything I write, because she believed in me before I knew how to believe in myself.
After receiving her glowing feedback, my parents stepped in to suggest I allow a few avid readers to take a look. I was hesitant, of course. This book was Brittany Unearthed. It was the most vulnerable and shamelessly me thing I’d ever written. Was I ready to let more people get that close?
“Why not?” a voice from within inquired. “How beautiful it would be… to let the world see you unmasked.” Suddenly, I was no longer afraid of my own authenticity. Suddenly, I wanted to cast aside all masks. It was time to appear without fear, and show up in the world from a place of self-love, confidence, and truth.
I sent the book to two of my mother’s close friends, one a voracious consumer of all things science fiction (my genre), and the other a passionate reader. Their feedback, kindness, and unwavering support made me feel powerful. Once again, when I failed to believe in myself, beautiful people came into my life with enough belief to spare. Suddenly, I felt as though this adventure, and these characters, could do some good in the world. They healed me, so perhaps, in some way, they could do the same for others.
Still, when I sent my story out to agents, I didn’t actually expect anything to happen. I thoroughly researched the art of the query letter, and I did everything by the book, but to me, writing this was about so much more than being published. I sent it out hoping only for one thing. I wished for it to touch someone’s heart as lovingly as it had touched mine. I wished for my characters to reach out and make someone else smile as widely as they’d made me smile.
Even if every single agent outright rejected it, my love would never wither. The piece would always be an untouchable portal to a place of healing, hope, and happiness for me. I allowed myself to enjoy the process with unapologetic passion, and to be shameless in fulfilling my deepest desires. I ran with my impulses, and let my creativity become a wild, feral, untamed thing.
When I first got The Email, I was stunned. An agent had requested the full manuscript, and I sent it to her at light speed. She would be the third person to read my book, the third person to meet my cosmic alternate and bond with my interdimensional friends. As I awaited her feedback, I maintained a sense of peace and trust. I was anxious and excited, but I never let my truest heart waver. If she was to be my agent, the bond would be effortless.
One month later, I got The Call, and it was one of the most beautiful, effortless conversations I’d ever had. I wanted to sign directly after, but followed the literary protocol of alerting all other interested agents of the development. Though several others showed more interest after this, my intuition and my inner child were guiding me now. I needed to follow the path that made me feel aglow.
The agent I signed with, the lovely Monica Rodriguez at Context Literary Agency, saw me in ways no one ever had. Because I had been so honest and free with my novel, she not only saw into the heart of the story, but into my heart as well. She told me that she loved every crazy, unhinged, out-of-this-world bit of it. The parts I feared would face the most rejection were the parts she enjoyed the most. In fact, she wanted more of them.
The Discoveries Made Through Revision
As we moved into the revision stage of publishing, Monica’s primary notes were designed to draw even more authenticity from me. She pointed out the places where she felt I’d held back, and encouraged me to take the story as far as I truly wanted it to go. With love, kindness, and endless support, she assured me that she’d always remind me of my power as a storyteller, and she’d always believe in the stories truest to my heart.
As I revised, I let myself explode with creativity. Scenes I held back suddenly became integral to the story. For example, I’d long wanted to inject ballroom dancing into the narrative, but worried it would be too much or too out-of-the-blue. My childlike heart said it would make things more fun, so I put it in.
Characters I’d kept a little quieter were now allowed to be their fully realized selves. For example, there’s a playfully insane love interest who I see as an absolute sweetheart. I once feared he’d be negatively received for his unique personality, but it was that personality that flowed like water for me. I’d gotten to know him like a friend, and every part of me wanted to let him flourish. Monica encouraged it, and surprised me once again when she read the updated manuscript and said she’d only fallen in love with him more.
Around every corner, I was being reminded of this simple fact: I am enough. My writing is beautiful and worthy in it’s most authentic form. In fact, the readers aligned with my truest heart, the ones who need my story, will crave only me. They will see, appreciate, and love me for everything I am, and every story I want to tell. If I’m having fun, they’ll have fun right along with me.
Out On Submission, A Whole New Adventure
My first novel is currently out on submission. This means that it is being considered by editors at multiple publishing houses, carefully and lovingly selected by Monica. I maintain the same level of peace and trust as I had when I’d submitted my story to agents. This allowed me to align with a wonderful human who uplifted me and my story in every way the first time, and I believe it will do so again. Regardless, this story is a home to me, and these characters are like family. No matter what happens, my heart is full, and I am — dare I say — happy.
For authors wondering about what submission is like, I’d say it’s like waking up excited every day. After all, any day could be the day you connect with your editor. For me, it’s taken several months, but in those months, I’ve dived into even deeper pools of cosmic creativity. With Monica’s help, I’ve selected a second story to work on. It’s drawn even more fearlessness from me. I thought I was unhinged in the first story’s revision. Now, I’m rediscovering what that means. I am writing like I had before fear had touched my heart. The wildflowers are blooming with chaotic splendor, and I am happily placing every petal where it belongs.
I am also grateful for the period of writer’s block that I experienced. Though it was challenging, it is during this period that I learned new levels of self love. I might not have been going on intergalactic adventures, but I was making my human body a home again, and bonding with this Earth in a much deeper way. Every experience here, painful and joyful, has strengthened my spirit.
I love all my lives, the ones on faraway planets and fantasy lands, and the one I’m experiencing right here, right now.
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