Waking From A Dream
By Vaughn Roycroft | March 15, 2021 |
I had another post written for today. But something didn’t feel right about it. I consider the essay an acceptable effort, and I may share it another day, but I shelved it. I think my subconscious needed to release something else. But here’s the rub: up till this past weekend, I still didn’t know what that something else was. It finally hit me on our chilly but sunny walk this past Saturday morning. My wife said something about the fast-approaching spring equinox. That in combination with the recent reminder of the one year anniversary of the pandemic being declared made me think of my March post from a year ago today, titled: It’s the End of the World As We Know It (And Writing Feels Fine).
I don’t know if I’ve ever had an essay title that’s had its meaning so enhanced by the ensuing year. Damn, turns out it really was the end of the world as we knew it, wasn’t it? And my work as a writer feels like it’s evolved to something beyond fine.
During the strange and often painful past year, perhaps more than during any other, writing has become more than just a sanctuary. This past year my writing journey has continued to reveal who I am, where I came from, and who I’m meant to be.
Waking From A Real-Life Nightmare
Heaven knows the prior year has wrought a tragic toll. Beyond the truly staggering death toll, hospitals are still overcrowded. Case counts are down, but they’re still frightfully persistent. Beyond the shock of failed insurrection, the rise of conspiracy-based authoritarianism and white nationalism remains a very real threat. Democracy remains fragile. Beyond the turbulence in the wake of George Floyd’s murder, there is still no justice for him or for Breonna Taylor, among far too many others. We’ve barely begun the effort to dismantle systemic racism. Unemployment numbers remain high, and far too many still wonder if they’re going to be able to pay their rent or mortgage, or even put food on the table for their family.
And yet, it feels like we’re slowly awakening. Last Friday a record 2.9 million vaccinations were administered in the US. The week set a record for shots in arms, too—including one in the arm of yours truly. Congress finally passed a record-setting relief bill. The economy continues to show signs of resiliency, with hopeful indicators for a strong recovery.
They’re small changes in the scheme of things, but—for me—they add to a dawning optimism that the world is finally managing to awaken from its pandemic-induced slumber.
Waking From A Ghostly Communion
As it was with last year’s post, the current circumstance has inspired reflection, on my writing journey and the path forward. Last year I compared the atmosphere to that of the aftermath of 9/11. Last year I wrote about how The Lord of the Rings movies prodded me to awaken to the power of storytelling, and how that changed my life-course. Tolkien’s storytelling remains a mighty force in my life, and I’m eternally grateful for the aligning of the universe that led me here.
Coincidentally, I recently had a vivid memory of another dreamlike occurrence that furthered my awakening. This one also came in the wake of 9/11. It started with the HBO series Band of Brothers. I’m not sure how many of you will remember that the first episode of Band of Brothers debuted just a couple of days prior to 9/11. In hindsight, I think it’s sort of spooky how this immersive, epic story about how people persisted through some of the most terrifying and tragic days in recent history, happened to appear during the months following another terrifying and tragic event. I doubt I was alone in finding that this often gut-wrenching and heart-breaking series provided solace for the times. 
I’ve mentioned my father before here on WU, including an essay devoted to the subject. It’s a testament to the impact our relationship has had on my writing journey. Because my dad was a WW2 vet, I was instantly drawn to Band of Brothers. Due to the show’s intensity and its graphic depiction of the war, my wife opted out early. This was before On-Demand viewing existed, and since I had to find opportunities to watch it alone, I ended up getting the boxed set on DVD when it came out sometime in late 2002.
In the early spring of 2003, my chance to watch the show arose. We were still at our business in Illinois, but by then we were taking every opportunity to get away to Michigan. My wife had a weekend business trip that didn’t include me. I’m not sure of the month, but it was still quite cold and the trees were still bare, so likely March or April. I packed my box set of DVDs and our black lab Belle and I headed to the Mighty Mitten. In a time before binge-watching was a thing, that is exactly what I did.
I was incredibly moved by the show. By Sunday afternoon, I was a wreck. I clearly recall watching the last disc: a documentary episode that highlights interviews with the living members of the 506th Paratroopers, titled, We Stand Alone Together. If you’ve never seen it (and even if you don’t think you’re up to watching the series), I highly recommend the documentary.
I want to preface what came next by emphasizing that these men powerfully reminded me of my father, who’d passed away ten years prior to this day. Early that Sunday evening, after my binge-watching, and with the show’s gorgeously haunting theme music (by Michael Kamen) reverberating in my head, Belle and I headed to a nearby playground in the woods. We managed to get the wiggles out of the dog, but I was still brimming with emotion.
The nearby cottages were still closed up for the winter—dark, empty. I felt like I was the only one within a hundred miles. Waves roared in the distance and cold wind whispered in the empty branches and pine boughs. But there was something else in the air, too. I sat at the picnic table pictured above, just to breathe. Even Belle seemed to feel the weight of it, and plopped down on the mossy ground nearby, taking it in. The only way I can describe it is to say that I felt the generations who came before me imploring me to do something! But here’s the rub: I had no idea what. It felt like my dad and all of the other vets were beseeching me. “Go. Do,” they called. “Follow your passion. There’s something else inside you, something untapped. Find it. It’s what you’re meant to do. That’s what we fought for. Don’t let this feeling go to waste.”
I can recall that dreamlike sensation so perfectly. On that day, storytelling was still dancing on the periphery of my conscious thought, elusive. There was an unnamed longing. Resistance still insisted that I was crazy even to dream. But this was a dream that lingered, even after waking.
I still often say this gig is my calling. And I still feel it’s my dad and the others who first called.
Waking From a Career Dream
Another eight months passed before we sold our company and moved here. But along with my rereading of The Lord of the Rings the prior year, it was watching Band of Brothers and communing with my father’s generation at a picnic table on a chilly Sunday evening that set me on the road to writing.
This past year has brought me to a juncture in that road. Somewhere along the line I began to imagine that the road would take me to a certain sort of career as an author. I never really aspired to fame, and I certainly understood that writing very rarely leads to fortune. But I must admit, I did slip into a new sort of dream—one that included the trappings of a traditional pub deal. You know, hardbacks and interviews and endcaps in bookshops.
During the pandemic, I came find that the branch of the road that leads to that dream is closed to me. For now. Who can know? Maybe I’ll find another juncture that leads me back that way. But if I do, I trust it will come when I’m meant to find it.
Still, in spite of my occasional somnambulism, I’m sure I’ve been on the right road. I haven’t wasted a single step. The route that lies open to me feels like the right one.
Waking to the Road Ahead
I wrote last year of how the pandemic emphasized the fragility of life, how it’s forced us to put things in perspective. Well, now we’ve had a whole year of that intensely magnified perspective. As I said above, in finding my way to maintaining my writing habit during the pandemic, I found a better understanding of my truth. By gaining a clearer vision of who I am as a writer, I’ve been able to let go of so much of the baggage I thought was needed for this journey.
In the past year I’ve grown enough to shed the superficial pride of a writer who desperately hopes his work is good enough to please others, and to march on with the confidence that my work is good enough not just to please me, but to lead to ongoing enlightenment.
The legacy of my father, and of the Greatest Generation, lives on within me. It called me out, and continues to fuel my growth. In the past year I’ve come to see that my own legacy as a writer is not mine to manufacture or direct. My job is to dig—to tap what’s deep inside me. It was there on that spring evening in ’03, and I’m still seeking and finding, learning and growing.
Whether my impact is destined to be great or small is not mine to know, either. For if that impact is to implore even one living soul, if it provides fuel to just one other person, how could I ever say it’s not enough?
On this spring day, 2021, I’m waking up to acceptance, to realizing that I’m already doing as I was implored. I haven’t let the feeling I had eighteen springs ago go to waste. I am doing what I am meant to do.
How are you, WU? Does this spring feel like a wakening? Have you passed any milestones that reveal who you were a year ago versus who you are today? Ever had a show summon ghosts to yell at you? Are you on the right road?
Vaughn Roycroft’s (he/him) teacher gave him a copy of The Hobbit in the 6th grade, sparking a lifelong passion for reading and history. After college, life intervened, and Vaughn spent twenty years building a successful business. During those years, he and his wife built a getaway cottage near their favorite shoreline, in a fashion that would make the elves of Rivendell proud. After many milestone achievements, and with the mantra ‘life’s too short,’ they left their hectic lives in the business world, moved to their little cottage, and Vaughn finally returned to writing. Now he spends his days striving to finish his epic fantasy series.
Your beautiful post touched me so deeply, Vaughn. The sentence that keeps resounding for me, among many others of equal power, is this one: “I haven’t wasted a single step.” To be able to say that—to be able to know that—is the most profound satisfaction there is, not simply as a writer but as a human being. Thank you for this gift …
You’re so right about the profound satisfaction, Barbara. I really feel empowered by it, too.
Thanks so much for your very kind words. I’m honored to have offered words that resonate.
I enjoyed this post a lot! It’s one I’ll keep.
Thank you!
Lenore Gay
Thank you, Lenore!
Dear Mr. Roycroft: Her name is Breonna.
Thanks, Bonnie! I’ve corrected it in the piece. (Funny, but I googled her name for spelling and STILL messed up. Grrr.)
As a transplanted Michigander yearning for the Great Lakes, and the daughter of a WWII vet, you already matched my experiences – and then the rest of the content did, too. (I worked my way through Band of Brothers when researching my book Skylark and Wallcreeper.) Beautifully written – thanks for capturing my scattered thoughts. @aobc
Any chance Belle is named after LacLaBelle?
Hey Anne–Greetings from a frigid Mighty Mitten (typical Michigan spring, can’t decide whether or not to behave, lol).
Boy, I had a hellova time collecting these scattered thoughts, so I’m delighted that they came together for you, too.
No, but I’ve been! We lived in Madison for two years in the 80s, got to travel around a bit. Actually, Belle came from a lovely book–a gift from a dear relative after her predecessor’s passing, titled Season’s Belle. When the time came, there could be no other name for the new pup.
Thanks for your kind words, Anne! Here’s to the Great Lakes and to the Greatest Generation, for all they’ve provided.
Marvelous, Vaughn, as always. You conclusion–“My own legacy as a writer is not mine to manufacture or direct. My job is to dig—to tap what’s deep inside me.”–is spot-on and such a relief, isn’t it? To release ourselves form our own importance is to truly be free to create from a place of truth.
The transition from winter to spring is always when I feel most restless, most poetic, most full of pent-up potential. It’s when I feel that of course I can do anything, and I can do it my way if I damn well please. It’s a lovely feeling.
I’m going to chase that feeling for a bit. Knowing you’re out on your path while I’m out on mine, that sometime we might catch a quick glimpse of each other between the trees, maybe share a wave, is one of the joys of the journey.
Michigan in March may not be pretty, but it sure is invigorating.
Boy, I miss that edit button…
Has it disappeared again? I’ll look into it.
Hey Erin–You’re so right–It’s a relief.
Oh, it’s going to happen: Someday, on one of these Michigan trails, we *are* going to meet. But until that day, you’re right, we can find joy in the anticipation and in the knowledge that we’re sharing the journey.
We call March down here Mud-Month. You ought to see our porch, where Gidget is corralled for paw-wiping, lol. But it’s worth it, for the invigoration. You’re right about that, too.
Thanks for being right all of the time, and for your kind praise and camaraderie. Here’s to changing seasons!
What a great post, Vaughn. It really got me thinking about what it means to be centered — to go after your dreams, but always with your best walking shoes on. Know who you are, where you’ve come from, what’s motivated you, what’s held you back, and adapt goals accordingly. Brilliant. I can’t wait to see what the next season brings for you. Write on.
Hey T–Well, I learned that ‘dreams like feet better than knees’ from you, after all. :)
This is the very best sort of praise ever, as I know you’ve seen me sans-being-centered, lol. Thanks so much for being one of the brightest guiding lights of my journey, my friend.
Vaughn, you always deliver. Your long journey toward awakening to, and claiming, your vocation as a writer reminds me of my own, marked by fits and starts, even though the obstacles and moments of light are vastly different. In this spring, despite being pained by all the awfulness you cite, I keep remembering these first few lines from Theodore Roethke’s villanelle:
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
My library has Band of Brothers on DVD and offers curbside checkout. I’m on my way. Thanks.
Wow, Anna–Thanks so much for the perfect and poignant addition of the Roethke lines.
So glad to have you alongside on the journey. I hope Band of Brothers delivers for you as it did for me (but I suspect it will). Hang on tight through the awful parts. There is so much honor, enduring friendship, love and light to come (hey, that sentence applies to life as well as B.O.B.).
Thanks a million.
Do. Something.
Is it lucky or unlucky that the great calling of our times is not to march to war but to stay at home? I don’t know, but telling stories is a very fine and necessary thing to do.
It takes only hours to read a novel but many months if not years to write one. Like all the best things, to enjoy the fruits is easy but to grow them takes a vast effort, patience and time.
The fruits of that labor do come. They will for you, Vaughn, and when they do I think that you may find, like so many have, that the joy is not in the long-awaited July 4th picnic with close family and friends but in the long march it took to secure that day.
Great post but even greater resolve. Thank goodness our dogs need walking every day. When else would we sort out what truly matters?
Hey Don–It’s such a paradox, isn’t it? I so dearly wish my dad could be around to read. But if he were, the story wouldn’t exist. Not this one, anyway.
Thanks much–your praise always means a lot to me. Here’s to our insistent walking companions!
This post gave me chills. Having come to know you through your essays and comments here, I have to say that you sound different today. More solid, if that makes any sense, like a gear has seated. Something has has gone ‘ca-chunk’. Having spent a lot of years discovering my own path forward, I relate to the fork in the road. I’ve reached one as well, only recently. One way is the one I’ve been plodding for awhile because I didn’t know the other one existed. this new road is the one where I accept full responsibility for who and what I am as a writer. On this trail I see that the true joy of telling stories is in reflecting back a richly-lived life. The movie that woke me up was ‘Dances with Wolves’. I saw it alone when it first came out and it crow-barred me right off my pity-pot. It was the wolf, Two-socks, refusing to back away, and the passionate friendship of Wind in His Hair. It was a beckoning to call out tyranny. And I agree with Don. Thank goodness for our dogs. They run full out for the joy of running.
Hi Susan–Very cool that I managed to pass along the chills I still get from the memory of that evening in ’03.
Oh, how I love Dances With Wolves. Two-Socks steals the show! I’m also delighted and so satisfied to hear you feel the gear clicking in because I certainly feel it.
I’m always humbled and honored by your kind and insightful responses here. You fill my heart right up.
Vaughn, I have this place–there’s a window, there’s a view, and in the past so many years, it has changed. Now it’s a garden in Chicago, a year ago it was sky and trees in California, once it was a deer looking right at me in Iowa, but it is always where I sit and write. The view is secondary to the words on the page, to my belief in a story that continues to grow and change in my brain. I don’t own a dog, but often when I talk long walks, the story winds along with me. It’s about PLACE, it’s about yearning and joy, sorrow and fear. It’s human beings in their struggle.
Your posts always fill me up, because I see you as a similar soul on this journey. Some don’t understand why we do this. Some seem more successful in doing this. I will always support those that are published and read. But I also will always believe in my words–as you believe in yours. Thanks for this post. I will look out into my garden and feel that bond–we as writers are growing our words and our thoughts. Yes!
This is beautiful, Beth. Made me tear up.
Dee
Thanks, Dee. If my words are ever between those two covers, you will be one of the first to get a copy. Promise. Because your support means so much.
I agree with Dee, Beth, this comment is beautiful and moving. Isn’t it funny how our office windows help us to perceive our truths, but what’s outside them never changes our resolve to set them into words on the page?
We are definitely kindred souls on this journey. I can almost feel your spirit from across the lake when I read your words.
Here’s to office windows, and to growing our words and thoughts. Can’t thank you enough! Stay warm!
Vaughn, my friend, this is one heartfelt post. Really, you’ve poured it out here, and rightfully so. Digging deep and changing gears can be unbelievably therapeutic.
For me, the awakening came before Covid. I spent most of 2018 and 2019 in the hospital, severely sick. Even after two major surgeries and over a year in recovery, my life has never been the same.
But I do believe in silver linings. For me, the awakening led me to realize I love editing and I could touch other writers with this love. I dove head-first into my editing business, http://www.beop.ca and never looked back.
Being sick was horrific. I still struggle today. But had I not been sick, my professional life would look much different, and I suspect my passion for writing might have also taken a different path. No regrets.
I love that you found your way, Vaughn. Through all the chaos, you know who you are and what you want. You’ll know how to get there, just follow your heart. It speaks the truth.
Big hugs,
Denise (Dee)
Hey Dee! Gosh, I’m so sorry to hear that you’re still struggling, but it’s wonderful that you’re living your silver lining. (And it’s a bonus for me that you found this additional calling.)
Your support has always meant the world to me, and the feeling only grows. Thank you! Here’s to the therapeutic effect of gears clicking into place. Wishing you peace and health and happy digging, my friend.
Lovely post, Vaughn. This resonated particularly: “I’ve grown enough to shed the superficial pride of a writer who desperately hopes his work is good enough to please others, and to march on with the confidence that my work is good enough not just to please me, but to lead to ongoing enlightenment.”
By its very nature, calls us to communicate with others, and if even one life is made better, it is of infinite value. And knowing you’re on the right path must give you a lot of peace. I wouldn’t say there was an awakening for me but rather an unveiling. I see things more clearly as they are. And what joy to look back and see how marriage and family life led me to writing and to God! Deo gratias!
Hey Vijaya–Oh yes, I like the image of unveiling, of seeing more clearly. That’s a lovely addition to this conversation.
Thanks so much! Here’s to the peace that comes of better knowing ourselves.
So, your post is very timely!! Just the other day I saw a person on writing twitter ask something to the effect of “Are you a serious writer or a hobby writer?” I kind of laughed and then then just shook my head, well aware of the snobbery in the writing community for “hobby writers.” However, I’ve spent the last five or six years figuring out that there really isn’t any measurable difference between the two. I’d say probably the main difference might be prolificity (is that a real word? Does it mean what I think it does?) But, writing is writing and creating is creating. The pressures we put on ourselves to reach a certain point preordained by the masses (or by our own ideas and perspectives) as a sign of being a “serious writer” or a “successful writer” is exactly that, self-imposed pressures.
Just last week I told my kids, who are very proud of me for writing books, that I thought maybe I’d need to adjust my dreams about writing. My youngest very quickly said, “You aren’t going to stop writing, though, right?” I assured him I wouldn’t, but just that the focus of what I was going to with the stories might be different. For him, and now for me, what is important is that I write, and I think that’s pretty smart.
An additional thought that I just had (probably in response to your lovely post) is that changing my dream isn’t necessarily giving up–it’s more of a letting go or an acceptance of where I am at this point in time because trying to live with the goal to orchestrate some idealized future makes the present not very fun! And the future will have the same options for me, or new and better ones when I get there.
Oh, and yes, I’ve had that restless feeling after movies or books that I can’t explain why or what I need to do. It’s both a delicious feeling and almost torture!
Lara, thank you for pointing out the false distinction between “serious writers” and “successful writers,” as if only writers who are paid significant $$ are serious.
Reminds me of that annoying, demeaning, and overused word “scribble,” which is even used in a humblebragging way by writers who are serious but don’t want to seem that they are getting above themselves.
Thanks, Anna! I always hesitate before I write such things because I worry about sounding bitter or like I’m making excuses, but after sufficient time to observe the process, I really feel pretty confident in my observation. (And yes, that false modesty is ANNOYING!!!)
Hey Lara! Lol on prolificity. Regardless of whether it is or isn’t, I knew what you meant, so doesn’t matter. You’re spot on here about that false distinction. I really can’t believe how much more I’ve been enjoying my writing sessions since I bypassed the roadblock of the forked road. I’m motoring along better than I have in years.
And what a perfect way to describe that restlessness that the stories that touch us like this can bring–both delicious and almost torture. Perfect!
Here’s to what’s important–that we’re both still writing. Thanks for this insightful comment. And thank your smart kids for me.
Yep! Let the words and joy in the journey commence!
Vaughn, my dad, forever known as “Sarge” to his buddies, was a WWII vet too; I need to watch Band of Brothers to further my education.
My dad had long years of Alzheimer’s before he died, and his communication was sparse in his last couple of years. But while I was down visiting at his last Christmas, and was out reading a novel in the living room, he turned to me from his wheelchair and asked, “Hey Tom, watcha reading?” which was the most specific thing he’d said to me in some time.
He died days later. I have always wanted to make him (and my mother) proud of my work as a writer, and though they are both gone, that is still motivation to me.
You have described so well your long road as a writer in your posts, its meanderings and its vistas, the hills hiding what’s ahead, and the open meadows that have both thistles and flowers. Keep on that road, mister—I know there are bounties to come.
Hey Tom–I won’t say B.O.B. won’t present some tough sledding, but I think you’ll find it worth the struggle. I love that you had the perfect moment with your dad. And that it involved books! I’m a little woo-woo, but I’m sure it has all kinds of meaning. It’s like these little glimpses we get of what’s beyond the veil. I’m glad it’s providing fuel. Always cherish it.
I’m so glad to have you alongside for the climb, my friend. Thanks for always pointing out the thistles (for avoidance) and the flowers (for respite and admiration).
This year has drudged up all the painful, scary stuff I’ve tried to soothe in the past because a large part of me felt powerless to change it. And in that worthless place, I had a lot of despair. If one light shone into the depths of this pandemic for me, it is the dawning realization that I’m not alone.
I’m not alone, you’re not alone, and that solidarity of not just me but us has taken to the streets and to the ballot box to make our collective voices heard. It has exposed with its light a small knot of greedy men and their complacent enablers and challenged the status quo and, in doing so, help to bring about real change. Change has been a long time coming, and even if we didn’t see the ripples, we can now clearly see the waves.
And that is what your stories have always been about for me, Vaughn. A place of change beyond the cynicism of the hopeless. Change that defies kings’ tyranny and the trappings of the status quo. A change comes from those who feel the despair of the powerless when they finally find their strength.
Strength is the realization we are not alone and that together we have the power to change.
There are readers for your stories, V. And my gut tells me now more than ever you’re going to find them.
Hi B! Man, this is a brilliant observation. We are definitely not alone. The power of us! Just two little letters. They mean more now than ever.
Thank you, my dear friend, for always pointing out the hope. It’s still there, lighting our way. I appreciate you!
Here’s to the waves, and their growing power.
Love this post, Vaughn. Thoughtful and thought-provoking. Thanks for sharing.
Thanks much for letting me know, Tiffany!
Beautiful post, and reading it IS one of those moments you’re talking about – you’ve led us there by reminding us of the times we’ve stood with that strange ache of longing, of grasping at something half-understood, of being stirred from within and without, called to do something.
Hi Erica–Ah, a writer’s most cherished praise–to know we’ve conveyed the very thing we longed to.
Here’s to the calling, and to all of the storytellers heeding it. Thanks a million.
Hi, Vaughn:
Yeah, been a year, huh? And a potentially historic (not in a good sense) decade ahead. I have the same feeling you do that it may just be we’ve only begun our walk through the dark wood. I’m happy the writing provided solace — been rough here. But one thing I did do is seek out poets to read, women and POC poets in particular. One I became particularly fond of was Eavan Boland, who passed away last year. On the subject of waking, here’s a poem of possible relevance. Thanks for the post!
Night Feed
Eavan Boland
This is dawn.
Believe me
This is your season, little daughter:
The moment daisies open,
The hour mercurial rainwater
Makes a mirror for sparrows.
It’s time we drowned our sorrows.
I tiptoe in.
I lift you up
Wriggling
In your rosy, zipped sleeper.
Yes this is the hour
For the early bird and me
When finder is keeper.
I crook the bottle.
How you suckle!
This is the best I can be:
Housewife
To this nursery
Where you hold on,
Dear life.
A silt of milk.
The last suck.
And now your eyes are open
Birth-coloured and offended.
Earth wakes.
You go back to sleep.
The feed is ended.
Worms turn.
Stars go in.
Even the moon is losing face.
Poplars stilt for dawn
And we begin
The long fall from grace.
I tuck you in.
Hey David – Such a mournful beauty in this. Thanks so much for sharing it. I wish you increasing solace in the work, but I commend you on the wisdom of seeking it in the rich beauty of words.
Onward toward the light!
This is a beautiful post, and it’s clear from the comments that your words, your emotions, have resonated deeply with many of us here. Thank you for sharing them.
I’ve been on this path for a long time, and it is sometimes hard not to feel like I “should” be farther along than I am… But thankfully as I’ve gotten older, I’ve gotten better at realizing that most “should”s in life are pointless shackles. Distractions at best. And “farther” is a meaningless term, because what/where even is the destination?
Whatever path we’re on, wherever it’s going, we just need to walk it the best we can, and enjoy it the best we can.
I’m confident that you’re doing exactly that. <3
Thanks for leading me back to this post, Kristan. I needed to be reminded, and your takeaway and enhancement of the message is exactly the gust of uplift I needed today to keep me from crashing. (Definitely moving full steam ahead on self-pub, but become daunted/feel like giving up about once a week.)
It’s been great having you alongside through so much of my journey. You tend to pop onto my radar right when I need a dose of your positivity. Back at you–I’m confident that you’re always striving. Which is inspirational. Hope you and your family are well, my friend. Have a lovely weekend.