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Who Will Read My Book?

(And Is My Story Even Worth Telling?)

You don’t want to write a book for attention. You want to write it because it won’t stop taking up space in your head.

It finds you in the shower.
While you’re driving.
In the middle of an ordinary Tuesday when you’re just trying to binge watch your favorite show…again.

The idea runs away with you. Demands your attention.

And then something more sinister knocks on the door.

It’s your good friend Doubt. And it is louder than a party of underaged kids on spring break. It demands to know:

Who will read my book?
Is my story even worth telling?
Why would anyone care about my life?

If you’ve ever wondered who will read your story — especially if you’re thinking about writing a memoir or a book about your life — you’re not alone.

But you may be asking the wrong question.

The better question isn’t, “Who will read this?” It’s, “Who will recognize themselves in what I’ve lived?”

Who Will Read My Book If I’m Not Famous?

One of the biggest fears people have when writing a memoir or personal book is “I’m not famous. Why would anyone read this?”

Most readers are not looking for celebrity. They’re looking for connection.

They don’t need your exact career path or life circumstances. They’re not searching for someone who built your company, survived your hardship, or lived your timeline. They’re looking for emotional recognition.

They don’t need your promotion and audience clapping moments. They need the time you sat in your car afterward and wondered if it would ever feel like enough.

They don’t need to have been there for your diagnosis. They need to connect with the fear that crept in when the room went quiet and your support had dissipated.

Instead of asking, “Will my book will sell?,” ask “Will anyone relate to this?”

If you’re honest they will.

With Book Ghostwriting & Story Development, this is often where our conversations begin — not with market size, but with emotional clarity.

Is My Story Worth Telling?

If you feel compelled to write, that compulsion matters.

Books don’t resonate because they’re dramatic. They resonate because they’re specific.

It’s the single glove on the side of the road after a horrific accident. The cheer that leaves your voice after a phone call that changed everything. The sound of the silence in your home after he left.

These moments become universal.

When you write with emotional precision, you stop trying to prove your story is important.

You simply tell the truth of it. And that truth is what makes a story worth reading.

Truth in Memoir: It’s Emotional, Not Literal

Another reason people hesitate to write a book about their life is fear of getting it wrong.

What if I don’t remember every detail?
What if someone disagrees with my version?
What if I can’t reconstruct everything perfectly?

Truth in memoir isn’t about recreating events like a legal document. It’s about emotional accuracy.

What did it feel like to be you in that moment? What did you believe then? What were you afraid of? What changed you?

When you write from emotional truth, you create something readers can step into.

And that’s what makes them stay.

The Moment I Knew Writing Could Do More

I remember the first time I felt what real connection on the page could do.

I fell in love with writing when I read A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway. There’s a scene where he describes a romantic interlude — her hair falling forward, creating a kind of tent around them. For a moment, they were hidden. Protected. Unimpacted by the world outside that small shelter.

I could see it.

But more than that — I could feel it.

It wasn’t just romance. It was safety. Intimacy. The illusion that love could pause chaos.

That scene didn’t just move me. It altered me.

It was the first time I understood that writing could do more than tell a story. It could narrate humanity.

That’s the kind of connection readers are looking for — even if they don’t know how to articulate it.

Aim for the Head Nod

When you’re writing a book — whether it’s memoir, leadership, or personal narrative — aim for this:

The nod.

The quiet moment when a reader reaches your sentence and thinks:

Yes. I’ve felt that.

They may not have lived your life. But they recognize the emotional terrain.

That nod is the real reason anyone reads something personal.

So Who Will Read Your Book?

Someone who has:

  • tried to be strong and gotten tired
  • started over and felt embarrassed
  • achieved something and still felt restless
  • lost something and struggled to name the grief
  • wondered if their story mattered

In other words:

Someone human.

Your reader is not a demographic category. (That’s marketing and it’s something we’ll address in the editing phase.)

Your reader is a person waiting for language.

And when you write honestly enough, clearly enough, bravely enough — they find you.

The right sentence can become shelter for someone you’ve never met.

If You’re Afraid to Start Writing

You don’t have to believe in the entire manuscript yet.

Start with one honest page.

If you’re wondering how to write a book about your life, begin with a moment you still feel in your body.

Write it cleanly.
Without performance.
Without trying to impress anyone.

Because sometimes a sentence can do what that scene in A Farewell to Arms did for me.

It can become a small, invisible shelter — a moment apart from the world.

Ready to Shape Your Story Strategically?

If you feel the pull to write but aren’t sure how to shape it into something powerful, that’s exactly where strategic storytelling begins.

This is the work I do through Book Ghostwriting & Story Development and Thought Leadership Ghostwriting — helping leaders, founders, and individuals translate lived experience into books and essays that connect deeply and endure.

If you’re ready to explore what your story could become, you can start the conversation here.

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Middle Age Math

middle age math

Memoir does two things at once. It helps someone survive something. And it helps someone else understand it. But more than that, memoir reminds us that we are all moving through the same cycle—just at different points in it.

Thirty-five years ago yesterday, my father died. He was 67. I was 18.

I wasn’t prepared to lose a parent.

And neither were my friends.

They supported me with the familiar, well-meaning: “Let me know what I can do.”

But we were 18.

Some of us hadn’t even lost a pet yet.

They didn’t know what to say. They felt awkward. My sadness interrupted the narrow, self-focused existence most of us were living during freshman year—and that’s exactly how it should be at 18.

We thought our parents were old—but also somehow permanent. Mortality was abstract. Something that happened later. So we didn’t talk about it much.

Now I’m older. Many of my peers have lost a parent. Some have lost both.

The Season We Once Stood Outside of Has Become Our Own

Lately, I’ve been thinking about my place in that lifecycle.

Parent. Child. Possibly soon, grandparent.

The thought makes me smile. It also makes me shift in my seat.

Imposter syndrome doesn’t disappear with age, it just takes on a different nuance, a new role to play. You’re no longer the carefree young kid. You’re in charge of people and you wonder who in the world thought giving you that level of responsibility was a good thing.

When you’re young, you don’t really think you’re going to get old. And then you get there in a hot thirty seconds. And when you do, you can’t imagine who launched you into this place where you should know what to do and say only the right things.

It’s taxing being in charge of people where only last weekend it feels like you were at a frat party getting free drink tickets because you flipped your hair in the right direction.

The Math Changes

One minute you’re trying to decide what you want to do when you grow up.

The next minute people expect you to know—because you already are grown up (at least according to the IRS).

Aging changes how the world sees you.

When you’re young, people assume you’re not ready yet.

When you’re older, they begin wondering whether you still are.

You start to notice subtle considerations like the quiet calculations you make before walking the dog in the rain. In the awareness of uneven sidewalks. In the passing thought that a fall might mean a different level of injury now than it once did.

When someone mentions the year 2000, I instinctively think, not that long ago.

And then I count.

Twenty-six years.

You Understand It Later

Someone my age might read this and nod.

Someone who is 25 might roll their eyes.

I would have.

I read an interview with Bruce Willis where he said at 40, “I feel like a 25-year-old kid in my heart.” Until he looked in the mirror.

At the time, I thought it was funny, maybe slightly delusional on his part

Now I understand. Perspective doesn’t just change how we see people. It changes how we see stories. I read literature differently now than I did in my twenties. Things hit me that I didn’t notice or understand before. When I read the short story “The Swimmer” by John Cheever, I didn’t understand his progression through his neighbors’ pools. It seemed like Cheever had indulged in his favorite vice a little too long before picking up the pen that day. But now I know that life really does fly by with the brevity of your best summer.

Meaning Comes After

Memoir meets people where they are in the lifecycle. It helps someone living through a season feel understood. It also helps someone approaching that season feel prepared. And it helps someone long past it remember who they once were.

Your story stops being a collection of events.

It becomes meaning.

And meaning is what endures.

If you’ve found yourself revisiting old memories differently lately—seeing them with new perspective—you may already be closer to writing your story than you think.

When you’re ready to explore it, you don’t have to do that alone.

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The Executive’s Guide to Not Oversharing

So, you want to write a book about what you’ve learned. You’re ready to move into thought leadership (or lock in the reputation you already have). But you also want to be real and help people understand who you are. You want to be you, not some bot writing a book.

And yes, it is possible to be honest without exposing a side of yourself that could alienate your audience.

But how do you do that?

Follow this framework.

The Strategic Storytelling Framework

The Strategic Storytelling Framework I use with all of my clients helps us sort through what’s a necessary part of the work and what is gratuitous oversharing. You want people to identify with you. You want to help them see you are more than a brilliant mind, funny person, or beautiful individual.

One of the easiest ways to prove that you’re not all “X” is to also show parts of your world that they may not realize. For instance, perhaps you’re Harvard educated. People make assumptions about you based on that fact like you split time in Hyannis Port and Delray dining on lobster, when in reality you ate friend bologna sandwiches on a TV tray somewhere in middle America.

These “dualities,” these unexpected challenges to stereotypes, make people (and their stories) more interesting. And that helps your audience feel invested in your story, which is essential if you want them to spend 150+ pages with you.

But just how forthright should you be about your past and the people in it? That depends and that’s where the Strategic Storytelling Framework comes in.

Who Are You Writing This For and Why?

Who’s your audience? It is other Gen Xers who now lead companies and they will feel like 15 year olds? Then great go for it. But if you’re writing this book to become a well-known thought leader in macroeconomics and you’re hoping to get on the speaking circuit, maybe that story doesn’t belong. Or maybe the lesson needs to be more poignant.

If the story fits your audience, if it’s something they’ll appreciate AND if it fits your objectives (like you’re telling a story of redemption where you used to abuse alcohol and you’ve learned from that), go for it. If you’re hoping to be invited to an economic forecast based on the knowledge expressed in your book, leave the binge drinking to a minimum.

Does It Fit Your Tone and Personal Brand?

This is really an extension of the audience question. For example, my writing (not my ghostwriting) tends to be snarky and irreverent. People who read my books know this. They expect it. If you have the reputation as a rebel CEO, a little unpredictable, wild stories might fit your tone and your mission. If however, you’re viewed as a serious introvert with a love of numbers and grammar precision that would make high school English teachers swoon, telling raucous stories in an informal tone, may send those closest to you over the edge (or telling you to fire your ghostwriter).

Unless this project is a direct (purposeful) contradiction to everything you’ve put out there building your personal brand, you should stick with the you people know.

Is This Your Legacy?

Do you plan on this book being one of many or will this be your magnum opus? Do you intend this to be your legacy? Your manifesto? Answering this question will help you understand what belongs in there and what doesn’t.

What’s Your Message?

Whether you’re writing a memoir or a leadership book, there’s an underlying theme behind your project. Themes might include:

  • Redemption
  • Overcoming addiction
  • Selling to everyone (okay, this is more of a topic)
  • Breaking the mold
  • Loving your job and following your passion

When you know what you’re trying to convey, you can easily sort through stories and decide which ones belong and which ones don’t. Even if you’re writing a business book, you might still include stories from your life but you’ll want them to tie into your messaging.

A Final Word About Privacy and Sharing

A big question executives I work with have is about privacy. What should I share and what should I leave out? When you start seeing your project through a strategic storytelling lens, it becomes easier to protect your dignity as well as that of those in your life, without losing depth and connection.

When you decide to get vulnerable with your audience, it should fit your goals for the writing project, as well as your personal brand (again, unless you’re combatting the brand itself and this is your swan song), and sharpen your messaging, not undermine it.

Once you answer these questions, write them down. Keep them beside you during the project and if you come across a lesson or story you want to share, ask yourself whether it fits the framework.

Or hire a ghostwriter and let them worry about it.

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5 Hard Things I Tell My Clients

Most people think ghostwriting is ‘just writing.’ It’s not. There’s a lot of work done shaping the story, deciding what makes it in and what doesn’t, and translating memories into life lessons that everyone will understand and relate to no matter what their experience.

It’s tricky. I’m part confidante, part grammarian, part impersonator (I want the book to sound like you), part story strategist, part producer, part project manager, and part guide (after all, I have to make sure we don’t get lost in the process.)

That’s why sometimes I have to give my clients some tough love so that our work together is the best it can be. If you’re considering writing a book, whether you do it with me, AI, your assistant, or on your own, here are a few hard things I tell everyone.

Tough Love Advice When Writing a Book

  1. Some stories will be left out. A strong book is selective. More detail usually dilutes the message.
  2. If you tell your truth, some people angry may be angry. Real life involves real people, and they may not agree with your version.
  3. A good book makes people feel things—and you might not like what they feel. Reaction is part of impact and you can’t control other’s reactions. The goal isn’t universal approval. It’s resonance.
  4. You don’t have to tell everything. Privacy is part of craft. If a detail doesn’t serve the message, you can protect it.
  5. This process can be emotionally demanding. Even business books ask you to make meaning out of experience. That takes energy.

What This Looks Like When We Work Together

My job isn’t just to write clean sentences. It’s to help you shape the story, choose what belongs (and axe what doesn’t), and build a book that’s tight, coherent, and true to your voice.

While each project is vastly different, my professional goal for each is the same. I want my clients to hear the phrase, “I thought about your book long after I finished it.” That’s the mark of a story told well.

If you’re considering a book and want a strategic partner in the process, reach out.
Use my contact form and tell me what you’re trying to say, who it’s for, and where you’re stuck. I’ll reply with next steps and let you know if I’m the right fit.

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Your Story Might Be Someone Else’s Escape Route

Every time the lottery grows to multi millions, most people play the entertaining game of “what would you do with the money?”

Paying off a home or buying one, cars, vacation villas, jewelry, designer clothes…there are a million ways to unburden yourself of your newfound winnings and each of us has our own ideas of how we’d do it. (Although, paying off a mortgage or buying a home is the number one way most Americans confess they’d spend their money).

And I’m not any different. I’d pay off the house.

Maybe take a vacation. Definitely would pay for the boys’ college and pay off the small remainder of my car loan.

But my extravagance, if I was one of those billionaire winners, after I covered all the things that add stress to life, is something more outlandish.

My own private island?

Hardly.

How I Would Spend My Lottery Billions

I would make a list of all the things I have ever wanted to do or experience, but because I chose another path in life, I never did.

I’m not talking about buying a Ferrari. That was never something I saw myself doing.

I mean things like moving to Maine and becoming a lobster (or is it lobsta?) fisherman.

Exciting things that could’ve been. Lives I could’ve lead. Very “Midnight Library.” (Love that book’s concept.)

Then I would take that list, find people who are currently doing those things, and pay them to show me their world. And I could experience all of those things–if just for a week. <Sigh.>

That’s why I love memoir.

Before I discovered its beauty, I thought memoirs were trashy tell-all books that celebrities paid others to write.

Now, I know better.

A beautifully written memoir can help you do as George R.R. Martin said,

“I have lived a thousand lives and I’ve loved a thousand loves. I’ve walked on distant worlds and seen the end of time. Because I read.”

I’ve read memoirs about lobster and crab fishermen, addicts, a twenty-something with a terminal illness, a funeral director, a homesteader, someone who walked the Pacific Coast Trail (and another who walked the Camino de Santiago), a trekker to Mt. Everest, a girl trapped in an attic, and countless memoirs of people trying to find themselves among awe-inspiring settings.

With some memoirs I came away wanting to switch places with the author, while others I gave thanks that I wasn’t in their position.

But all of their stories made me appreciate their experiences.

Reading builds empathy and no genre builds it quite the some way memoir does. After spending several hundred pages with an author, how can you not feel something for them?

Many people tell me they want to tell their story but few follow through. Much of that is because they wonder if their story is worth telling. I assure you someone is waiting to live life the way you have or to learn something from the challenges you’ve experienced.

While your perspective may be unique, your story is about connection, and helping people see things through your lens. By doing so, you help people not feel so alone. And that is an incredible service.

Until I am able to find a way to live a thousand lives of my own, I will escape into the adventure of memoir.

I hope you will too.

If you have a story to share, but don’t have the time to do it, contact me today. We’ll see if we have a compatible view on the project and a mutual respect of venturing into the unknown.

Until then, keep living.

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Do I Have to Be Famous to Write a Memoir?

When I tell people I’m a ghostwriter and I help others tell their stories, I almost always hear one of two things.

The first is: “I’ve always wanted to write a book.”

The second is: “I have an interesting story, but no one would want to read it. I’m not famous.”

Let’s start with the first group.

Get Over Your Excuses and Write the Book

If you’ve always wanted to write a book, my answer is simple…

You should.

Your story doesn’t need permission. It doesn’t need a platform or a blue checkmark. This isn’t high school and you’re waiting to be assigned a topic to write on. The only thing standing between you and the page is what you’ve placed in front of it.

We all have the same 24 hours. The difference is how we use them. If time feels like the barrier, take an honest look at how many minutes slip away to scrolling, streaming, or busywork that doesn’t matter.

You don’t need long, uninterrupted days to write a book. You need consistency. A few minutes at a time is enough. Books are written the same way anything meaningful is built: one small, deliberate step after another.

And if the fear isn’t time but talent, you’re in good company. Even authors who had amazing success with their first books often face crippling imposter syndrome and worry the second book won’t be a success. (If you find that to be the case, there’s always a Vice Presidential run.)

Many people know what they want to say but don’t know how to shape it into something others want to read. That’s where support comes in. Some people outline with AI. Others dictate their thoughts. Some choose to work with a professional. Hiring a ghostwriter isn’t for everyone, but it exists for a reason: to help translate lived experience into a clear, compelling story.

Now to the second group—the ones who believe their story doesn’t matter because they’re not famous.

That simply isn’t true.

The Connection Behind Commonality

If anything, our culture has moved in the opposite direction. Social media, influencers, podcasts, reality television—we are more interested than ever in other people’s lives. Years ago, The Truman Show felt like an absurd concept (at least to me). Who would want to watch someone else’s ordinary life? Now we do it daily.

People read memoirs for connection. For recognition. To see themselves reflected in someone else’s choices, mistakes, resilience, or growth.

If you’re considering a memoir, ask yourself this instead:

Have you learned something that could help someone else?

Maybe it’s how to survive a season you didn’t choose or how to leave an abusive relationship.

Perhaps it’s how to build a life, a business, or a sense of self from the ground up.

Memoir isn’t about fame. It’s about meaning.

And while most of us understand that writing a book won’t make us billionaires, books do something far more lasting. They help people feel less alone. They create understanding. Research consistently shows that readers develop deeper empathy. Like most readers will tell you, when you spend 200 or 300 pages inside someone else’s experience, your perspective shifts.

That matters.

So when someone tells me they want to work with me to write a book, I don’t ask if they’re famous. I ask what they’ve lived, what they’ve learned, and why it matters now.

And if your story keeps tugging at you—if it’s been sitting quietly (or not so quietly) in the background of your life—stop ignoring it.

Stop wondering whether your story is “enough” and start exploring how to tell it well.

I work with people who don’t want noise. They want clarity. Together, we shape lived experience into a story that has impact and purpose.

Your story doesn’t need fame.

It needs care.

If you’re ready to give it that, I’m here.

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I’ve Never, Ever Done This Going into a New Year

I am a list maker, a thinker, and a goal-driven middle-aged girl.

Yes, all those things. (And yes, the phrase middle-aged “girl” is probably best understood by most of my Gen X compadres.)

But for the first time in my “adult” life, I went into this new year with absolutely no goals, promises, or resolutions.

It just wasn’t in me.

Oh sure, I thought about them.

No Resolution Rose to the Top

I have plenty of things I can work on to better myself and improve my career. But none called out to me. No area of my life seemed more poignant than another, demanding my attention and the righting of the ship, so to speak.

Since the turn of the calendar page, I’ve asked myself why I didn’t follow my usual zeal of creation and promises into the new year and it came down to several things.

  1. I’m in a different season of life. My kids left for college this past August. In some ways I have more free hours, but in others I’m facing new demands on my time and patience. Creation seems more difficult for me these days. It feels like a season to replenish, to let the fields grow fallow for a moment or two, to catch my breath.
  2. I want my choices to be impactful. This year, it was all about timing. The end of the year happened too quickly. I was in the driver’s seat for holiday celebrations and I believed that I was at the center of making everyone’s every meal as well as ensuring all of their Christmas delights were incorporated into a two week period. That left me emotionally exhausted with very little time for introspection. (Something I really need.) I didn’t want to default to the obvious resolution–lose weight, get in shape (although that’s a good idea and I have a lot of work to do in that area). I also couldn’t quite pinpoint the answer to the old question of “What’s the one thing you can do today that would have the biggest impact on your tomorrow.”
  3. I’m worn out. I’m not naturally a people person. I felt worn out by social commitments this year. I need some extra time to recharge. That’s why I’m taking a groundhog approach to early 2026. Hoping to see my shadow in the spring. Until then, I plan on a little hibernation and being more selective with my social obligations.

At the end of 2025 I gave myself permission to ease off the gas pedal and I’m working now on protecting my time.

I guess that in itself could be a resolution. (See how hard it is for me not to latch on to something? I’m a work in progress.)

As you metaphorically write your story this year, it’s important to understand that every chapter is different. Some are page turners and others are plot builders for future action.

But both are essential.

What type of chapter are you in right now? Are you in the middle of a big build-up or a plot twist? Perhaps, you’re learning something about the main character.

Give yourself permission to enjoy each chapter and what it offers to the greater story.

If you’re ready to explore the deeper themes in your life or help others learn from your experiences, I can help. Contact me today and let’s talk about you and how we can get your story out into the world where others can enjoy it and apply your lessons to their own challenges.

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The Only Gift You Need (but you have to be the one to give it)

Amidst all the hustle and craziness of this time of year, the Ghost of Christmas Past lingers close in my mind.

During those few stolen moments early in the morning before the sun rises and the slumberers awaken, and the cracking fire is my only companion, my mind often wanders to where I am this year compared to last. I reminisce about who is no longer in my life, what challenges I’ve faced this year that wasn’t apparent last, and think about who has entered my life.

It’s not morbid.

It’s my way of telling myself that the only constant is change.

This year, we sold a house in a state where I had spent two decades raising my children. We moved 1,000 miles away to a new time zone. There I met dozens of people—several of whom I now call friends. Our youngest kids went to college—one in the state where he was born and one in the state I spent my youth, each 1,000 miles away from where I am now.

We’ve spent more time with family who had previously been far away. We traded our flip-flops for cowboy boots. Yes, we’re those people.

I ghostwrote a book with a double transplant survivor about the importance of keeping a great attitude. And I’m talking to other people who want to tell their stories.

I walk more than I drive these days.

We visited my brother in Hawaii, I saw my son win a dance contest with his fraternity, I took my other son on a two-day road trip to school. I was there when my mother celebrated her 90th birthday.

I’ve embraced AI as a necessary part of doing effective work, even if it will probably replace me. And I’ve explained how to best use large language models on a few webinars.

I won an award from the Florida Authors & Publishers Association for my book The Glinda Principle but couldn’t attend the awards banquet because our house sold much quicker than expected and I was in mid route to a new life when my author peers were walking across the stage.

We glamped in Wimberley, Texas; attended our new hometown’s Oktoberfest; shopped for wedding dresses with our soon-to-be daughter-in-law; and raced to Pittsburgh thinking our youngest was experiencing appendicitis.

Life is certainly different than this time last year when I didn’t realize half of what was in store.

But there are still things I’m working on—carryovers, residuals, the same things in many respects. I still carry more weight than I should and eat more sugar than is healthy. And I haven’t booked as many speaking gigs as I had on my 2025 goal sheet.

Yet each day brings new opportunities and choices. There are things I saw going one way, that ended up another, and there were occurrences that I didn’t see happening at all, yet they did.

Redirection

But before you see this list as self-indulgent, depressing, or boastful, this look back is necessary. It’s important to understand where you’ve been to appreciate the potential in where you’re headed.

It may seem impossible for you this time of year to give a lot of thought to how things have changed. But it’s all part of your story.

And it’s only in the rearview that we can appreciate how rejection was just redirection.

On our way to Texas this year, we were buzzing along at a good clip. The weather was great and the golden hour cast a beautiful glow that made even the eighteen-wheelers look majestic. I was following my husband but he’s a more aggressive driver so he was about a quarter mile ahead of me.

Then I lost him. A few big rigs, some tall-profile SUVs, and several s-curves hid him from view. Then my GPS rerouted me. I assumed it had done the same for him and that was why I couldn’t see him. I had seconds to decide if I was going to exit the highway or continue on.

I went with the redirection.

Moments after exiting the highway, I was convinced the GPS wanted me lost in the tall grass of Mississippi backroads. There were twists and turns and one-lane bridges. How could this be the most efficient way to get to where I was going? Cell service was in and out like a twenty-something friend with benefits. The East Coaster in me broke out into a sweat.

Lost. Hopelessly lost. Sure, I followed the directions, but with fading cell service, it was only a matter of time before I had no guidance. Then I’d be trapped among the hills and hollows–a warning for women traveling. I cursed my GPS for being dumb. This was all its fault.

I realized then without a paper (or downloaded) map in the car, I was no longer in control. I had to hope my cell signal would hold until I could see the highway again or at least get out of the rural area and find a gas station oasis (preferably Buc-ee’s).

That’s when I noticed how enchanting the fading sunlight looked on the golden grasses, how the rust on the roof of a long abandoned cabin appeared to be purposefully done to offset the dismal gray color of the building, how horses are majestic beasts with gorgeous curves and tails that swish rhythmically.

I stopped worrying about what was next and concentrated on where I was. After all, there might be a chance I’d need to park my car in that golden grass and wait out the night if I couldn’t figure it out soon.

But I tamped the fear down and opened my eyes to what was all around me. The bucolic landscape of impossibly green hills and golden accents wasn’t anything like the sterile views I had seen from the highway and yet the road that took me to this peaceful place was only a few hundred feet away.

I was seeing the real Mississippi, not the man-created one but the natural one. Untouched. Less traveled. Vibrant in its simplicity. (Still, I was happy to have a full gas tank.)

Then I saw the sign to reenter the highway. When I did, cell service improved, and the views became more predictable—billboards, parts of exploded tires, fast-food wrappers.

I called my husband. He was stuck in traffic on the highway miles behind me. There had been an accident after he passed my turnoff. My concern over the time I had lost from my detour evaporated. I was thankful I had seen what I had. Undisturbed beauty and open roads.

It made no sense to me while I was in it, but my redirection had given me an experience my husband hadn’t had.

The Gift of Retrospect

We don’t always know why the plot twists of our lives happen. Perhaps they’re making way for something bigger and better or maybe, in my case, just giving you a better view.

And regrets aren’t worth your time because we can only base our decisions on the information we have at that moment. My husband hadn’t had my choice to exit and I hadn’t known why it was suggested I should.

We can only do what is best for us at that time with the tools and skills we have.

With any luck you’re not the same person reading this today as you were this time last year. You’ve learned something. You have overcome (or are working on that) and life has thrown you some curveballs.

But we learn from life in two ways—experience (having lived it) and learning from someone else by either hearing, reading, or watching their story.

So, during the holidays, give yourself the gift of reflection because when you open it, you’ll also likely receive the gift of appreciation. Be gentle with yourself and notice not what you didn’t accomplish but what you weathered and endured. Don’t look for only big wins; look for the strength it took to keep going some days whether you were battling fatigue or something bigger than that.

A new year is just around the corner, but before you spend time thinking about how you will try to change yourself for the better, appreciate the person you are today.

And think about the message you might have to share with others.

Don’t let another year go by without sharing your story with the world. If you don’t know where to start, start small. Think about:

  • What moment changed you?
  • What did it cost you to learn?
  • What do you know now that would help someone else?

If you have a story you’ve been carrying, I’m here to help you translate it into words that resonate.

Contact me today.

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If You Don’t Tell Your Story Who Will?

Everyone tells you that you should write a book. But something’s holding you back. Let’s walk through the ten most common reasons you’re not on shelves yet. And it’s not talent.

Do you hear it?

For some people, the phrase shows up like clockwork.

At conferences.

At dinner parties.

When having wine with friends.

“You should write a book.”

If you’ve heard it more than once, there’s a reason. People don’t hand out that sentence casually. It’s usually because they see something in you — wisdom, perspective, survival, humor, or leadership — that deserves a permanent home on the page.

But if something’s been nudging you to write… and something else has been stopping you… you’re not alone.

I’ve even been there and I’m a professional.

Here are the 10 most common roadblocks I see when working with leaders, founders, and survivors who’ve carried a book inside them for years.

1. You Think Your Story Isn’t “big enough.”

It’s rarely about the size of the events. It’s about the meaning behind them.

Impact comes from honesty, not spectacle. You don’t have to have experienced something extraordinary. Your coping or leadership in ordinary circumstances can still inspire. After all, there are more of us grappling with common struggles than the blockbuster “astroid hitting the earth” scenarios.

2. You Don’t Know Where to Start.

Beginnings feel intimidating because most people confuse “start writing” with “start perfectly.”

Books begin in conversation, curiosity, and messy notes — not chapter one. When I made the switch from fiction to non-fiction with my book The Glinda Principle, I kept notes for months–little ideas I jotted down, not sure where I was going. I just knew I had something to say. Maybe a book, maybe an essay.

After a few weeks, I couldn’t believe how many thoughts had percolated into my notebook. The book practically wrote itself at the point.

But what it didn’t’t do was edit itself. (This is where you’ll spend most of your time so don’t worry about where to start. Just start.)

3. You’re Afraid of Being Misunderstood.

Sharing your story isn’t just an act of communication; it’s an act of courage.

You want control over the message, and that’s valid.

Plus, once you put it in writing, it feels permanent. This makes a lot of people step back and wonder what they’re saying and who they’re saying it about.

This is your truth. Write it first. Worry about those details afterward. Same goes for the next one…

4. You’re Worried About Hurting Someone.

Memoirs and leadership books often touch relationships, conflict, and truth.

There are ways to tell the story with integrity and kindness. You can also create amalgams of characters so no one person feels wronged by the portrayal.

But again, tell your story first, the concern about liable and feelings can come later during editing.

5. You Don’t Think You’re a Writer.

Well, you’re not…yet.

And you don’t have to be. Writing is a craft, but storytelling is human instinct.

If you speak in a truthful way that helps connect people to your experiences and how it relates to their own, you’re already a quarter of the way there. We just have to “capture it” at that point.

6. You’re Overwhelmed by the Publishing World.

Traditional? Hybrid? Self-publishing? Agents? Proposals?

It feels like learning an entirely new language before you even know what you want to say. But worrying about that before you’ve ever written a word is like being concerned about how you’ll transport a cake to an upcoming event when you don’t even have an oven to bake it in.

7. You’ve Tried Before… and Stalled.

Half-written drafts are not failures. They’re proof you cared enough to start.

Screenshot

A stalled draft usually means you didn’t have a structure — not that you didn’t have a story.

And, maybe, just maybe it wasn’t the right time for the world to hear your message.

8. You Don’t Know Who Your Reader Is.

This is the one I give my clients the hardest time about. We all want to believe our stories are for everyone.

But they’re not. At least not initially.

There is someone who wants (and needs) to hear your. Who is that person? How old are they? What’s their background? Where do they hang out online and in-person? When you can figure those things out, you can write with that person in mind.

Once you do that, it’s impossible not to finish because you don’t want to let that person down.

Clarity about your audience also sets everything up including voice, shape, pacing, purpose.

9. You’re Scared Your Experience Will Be Judged.

Anyone who has lived deeply carries stories with sharp edges.

The goal isn’t to impress — it’s to resonate. Readers connect to truth, not polish. Perfectionism has killed more writing careers than the pen (or keyboard) of a spiteful critic.

Plus, you’re not for everyone.

In fact, there are people who hate chocolate. And although they are wrong and very ill, they are entitled to their opinion.

If chocolate can’t make everyone happy, neither can you and that’s okay.

10. You Don’t Have the Time.

Here’s the part most people don’t realize:

Many of the world’s most meaningful books were not written by the person whose name is on the cover.

They were shaped, structured, and carried to completion with a ghostwriter or–at the very least–a capable editor.

Most of us don’t have a year to carve out to learn the publishing industry, and become a full-time writer. I wrote one of my books for an hour a day in my car on my lunch hour.

You can chip away at the goal of becoming an author the same way I did in stolen moments around a full-time job and a family or you can partner who a ghostwriter who can help you turn experience into narrative and narrative into impact full-time. The first way (doing it part-time on your own) might take a year or longer depending on your schedule.

Do you want your story to wait that long? Do you want your audience to?

Just because you don’t have the time doesn’t mean the world doesn’t need your message.

If you’re one of the many people who keep hearing “You should write a book” and feel a quiet yes beneath the fear and logistics — let’s talk.

Sometimes the first step isn’t writing. It’s a conversation.

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A Reason You Might Not Have Thought of to Tell Your Story

Change is hard—even the change you want.

On our last day of Thanksgiving vacation, my computer died. I grabbed my phone and Googled solutions. Panicked. The black screen of death mocked me. I closed the laptop and stared at the ocean.

I was filled with dread.

There I was on a balcony in balmy weather and I should’ve been enjoying my last day at the beach. Instead, my thoughts were on everything I might’ve lost.

Years ago I made the decision to switch to cloud storage. While it’s my usual course of action to save to the cloud, I couldn’t help but think there might be something that perished on the hard drive.

Pictures. Notes. Things I couldn’t get back.

No dip in the pool or rainbow-colored cocktail could cure my unease. It was like the bitter aftertaste left in your mouth after swallowing cough syrup from the ’70s.

I couldn’t shake it.

My husband recognized this and went about solving the problem—ordering me a new laptop and having it delivered in two days, once we’d be home.

I was relieved he had taken care of it because I was in the type of mood that is not conducive to good decision making.

We made it home from vacation and a few hours before my new laptop was to be delivered, my old one rebooted. No more black screen. It’s like it told me it needed a rest and now it was ready to tackle the workday.

I spent several hours on it catching up on work. We were back together like Cagney and Lacey. But my husband reminded me my new computer was on its way and we could no longer trust this one. I wanted to cover its ears. After all, it had been my faithful companion for three years and visited multiple states and countries with me.

I was used to how its keys felt under my fingertips. I knew the weight of it in my bag.

But my husband was right. It had shut down with no advanced warning, no overheating, no overworking—just a slow workday morning out on the balcony facing the beach, not too hot, not too cold. And it refused to do as I asked.

As a writer, my laptop is one of the only things I need to do my job. I can even muddle through without an internet connection. But at 53, I find writing on a phone exhausting. I have an iPad, but it does weird things on some apps. My laptop is my ride or die and it had chosen to die.

When my new laptop arrived, I set it up. It wasn’t the same weight or the same size. The keyboard felt different. It didn’t feel like a Mac at all. It was clunky, like the early Dells. But my ride or die had shown me it was unreliable so my hand was forced, or so I told myself. Yet, I lingered over my old laptop.

I told my husband I would slowly transition to the new one. He reminded me my transition better move along because Apple was expecting my old laptop back as part of our trade-in deal.

Ugh. Change.

I couldn’t have the best of both worlds, keeping my unreliable but fancier laptop until it chose not to start again.

But will this new laptop perform like the early days of my previous laptop? Will it have all of my same apps and logins saved? How will this new one work with AI? Will it be faster like the marketers claimed, or will it shut down inexplicably like my other one?

I knew I had to change but I didn’t want to. Why couldn’t I keep things the way they were? I wanted to stick with what I knew, even though I also realize this change is for the best.

Perhaps you’ve made a change recently—even a small one—where you know it’s the right thing to do but you don’t want to.

If you have, you’re doing something that others have thought about as well. Even in the seemingly silly example of changing out a dead computer, someone somewhere has agonized over that decision.

Changing up your hair. Going for the promotion. Walking out on an unfaithful lover even though you appear to have the “perfect life.”

Change is a necessary part of growth, large or small. It’s that point in time hovering at the crossroads where you can go forward into something unknown or you can cling to what you do know that’s not working.

Even if you’re averse to change, you’ve been through it. Maybe you lost a parent, spouse, or child. Maybe you gave up something that was harming you physically or mentally.

You weathered change and you’re stronger for it.

Or it knocked you down like a rogue wave, scraped you up pretty badly, made you eat sand. But you learned from it.

Sharing your story of change (and how you lived through it) is a powerful way to give back. It helps someone know they’re not alone, and it teaches what you’ve learned—either as a lesson in how to survive or what not to do.

All good stories start with wanting something that is out of reach, and you can’t get what you want without change. It may bend you or break you, but if there’s something you want, you’ll have to change in order to get it.

Sharing how you did that is a story people will want to read, no matter how common the desire.

After all, you just finished this blog post, didn’t you?

If you’re ready to share your change story, contact me and we’ll talk.