The Novel I Wrote At My Worst Helped Me Find A Way To My Best

For those who fear the darkness has won, trust me, your light is more powerful than you think.

Writing is, in nature, one of the most vulnerable things we can do as human beings. Sometimes, it is the channel through which we share our greatest joy with others. It can be a space where childlike wonder blooms, safely guarded between covers from the criticism of the world. It can also be a place to explore our highest hopes, dreamiest wishes and deepest expressions of love. 

However, on the opposite of light, there is sometimes darkness.

Writing can be a rehabilitation center, of sorts. It can give us a plane built only for healing, but healing isn’t always beautiful. Healing can be painful and ugly. It can come drenched in blood, sweat and tears. It can enter on a fanfare of cathartic screams and hopeless sobs. Just like healing is far from perfect, so is my debut novel, The Bleeding Woods. 

I’m sharing this today because I am overcome with a litany of emotions I don’t quite know how to make sense of. My social media accounts are gaining traction, the pieces I’ve written about The Bleeding Woods are being read, and multiple bookstores have expressed interest in hosting me for events. An echo of something I felt when I first learned that my editor, one of the brightest and most beautiful souls I’ve ever encountered, wanted to work on it with me, has returned… only louder. 

I truly believe this story was made to teach me that I am enough, even at my worst. It’s something I wrote when I was at my worst, yet it was at my worst that I was found by people who’d help me become my best.

How I Wrote The Bleeding Woods

TW: Mention of Eating Disorders/Disordered Eating

I wrote The Bleeding Woods at a time I thought was my worst. Most days, I was starving and in very staunch denial of it. A starved brain doesn’t write particularly well, but back then, I was writing to survive. I needed something and someone to live for. So, I lived for my book and for anyone out there who might like to read it. 

To say I thought my work was unworthy would be an understatement. Still, my agent, my editor and an entire publishing house of kind, talented people believed in me enough to make this dream a reality. They assembled, not just to support my story, but to support me as an author. 

Me… an author? Me, barely eating enough to support a ten year old child? Me, crying her eyes out on the floor of her bedroom at least three times a week? Me, miserable, tired and hopeless? 

These wonderful people took one look at my story, some of it so blatantly affected by how desperately my mind and body had been calling out for care, and they saw something valuable. They took one look at me, shy, shaky and insecure… and they saw someone worthwhile. They saw something I couldn’t at the time, until eventually… I could.

There’s a beautiful, loving irony to all of this that I’m only realizing two weeks ahead of release. I still read this story and see glimpses of myself at her worst. I see where my words tumble over each other, because even though I couldn’t admit it, my eating disorder was affecting my ability to write. I see where the story’s heartbeat syncs up with mine, thrumming to the beat of the emotions I’d been feeling. Anger. Sadness. Feminine rage. The desire to be loved. The fear of being seen. It’s all there. All of the ugliest parts of my healing journey, the parts I thought no one should see, are there. Feral and imperfect. Messy, even. 

There must be some sort of magic at work, and I’ve never been one to doubt magic. 

In a weird, cosmic way, it makes sense that The Bleeding Woods would claim its spot as my debut. This is the first time I’m sharing my original creative work with a broad audience, and I’m doing it with the piece I thought I’d hide forever. I’m doing it with a story that carries the weight of pain I was once too ashamed of to admit to my closest family. Through it, I’m letting a past version of myself be seen, loved, held and supported. I’m learning that I truly did deserve to be seen, loved, held and supported, even back then. Especially back then.

A version of me I thought no one would love, a version I thought no one could love is the version that wrote this novel. The novel I thought so unworthy, a publisher thought worthy. Now, there are readers deeming it worthy, too, and I… I don’t know what to do with that. I’m so grateful, I could cry. I’m so surprised, I could cry. I’m so happy, I could cry. 

But I’ve spent enough time crying. Now, I think I want to start flying, and I’m writing this piece to thank everyone who helped me, whether they knew it or not, to remember my wings. 

I’m writing it to thank everyone who has read The Bleeding Woods and who will read The Bleeding Woods. In it, you’ll find shadows of me at my angriest and most terrified. You’ll find wraithlike slivers of a girl who was writing to survive. You’ll find a timeless spiral back into one of my many previous selves. You’ll also find every glimmer of hope I dared to chase, every moment of happiness, every scene that made me smile when the expression had become so terribly unfamiliar. It’s a mosaic of nonlinear healing, horror and love, maidens and monsters, from my heart to yours.

Just a few paragraphs back, I mention having written The Bleeding Woods for some nebulous “someone”. For a while, I thought it was me. Then, when dark thoughts crept in to convince me I wasn’t worthy of that, I told myself it was for someone outside of me. Someone curled up beneath their covers, tearfully wondering if life will ever get better. Sniffling through wishes. Sobbing through pleas for change, healing and hope. I rearranged my sense of purpose to care for this distant person, so that someday, I could smile at them and say… 

…it will get better. It always does. Your wishes can and will come true. Everything will change. Healing is inevitable and hope is your birthright. The darkness won’t last forever; it can’t. You will come out on the other side of the woods, and you will come out stronger, more fearless, and more authentic than ever. Just like Clara Lovecroft, my protagonist. 

Just like, well… me.

It’s taken me years to realize that The Bleeding Woods came into existence for both. In wanting to reach others, I unknowingly reached myself. In wanting to help others, I unknowingly helped myself. Art is funny that way. It manifests in a beautiful state of non-dual purpose. In alchemizing its creator’s pain, it lives on to alchemize for others. In healing its creator’s heart, it lives on to heal hearts beyond theirs. 

There could be someone from the year 2141 who will find The Bleeding Woods, now a dusty relic of the previous century, on a rainy day, in a bookshop on the edge of their city. Maybe there’s something in it they need. There could be someone in 2040 who stumbles across it on their e-reader after an awful afternoon at work. Maybe there’s something in it they need. There could be someone reading it right now, amidst a lovely 2025 spooky season, in a cozy café preparing to swap their Halloween decor for Christmas. Maybe there’s something in it they need.

All I can say is that… I’m grateful I stuck around to write it. I’m grateful I’m still around to write this blog about it. I’m grateful I didn’t give up back when it seemed like the only viable option. I’m grateful for all those someones out there in infinity who were cheering me on, for the characters who stood by my side, and… for me. 

Me, a girl who made it out of her own deep, dark woods. 

Me, a person I’m now proud to be. 

Me, an author.