When I first sat down to write The Idiom Stones, I gave myself a goal: two and a half hours a day, every single day, until it was done. No excuses. No “I’ll get to it tomorrow.” Just a quiet promise to myself to show up and write. And somehow, I did. For three months straight, I carved out that time each day. Some days the words came easily; other days, I stared at the blinking cursor, willing a sentence to appear. But I stayed with it, and after ninety days or so, I looked up and realized I had something resembling a complete manuscript—61,000 words. A whole book. It felt surreal to see that word count staring back at me. For a brief moment, I thought, That’s it—I’ve done it. I’ve written a novel. What I didn’t realize then was how much of the journey still lay ahead. It’s funny how the word complete can be misleading. You think it means finished, polished, done. But in writing, the first draft is really just the beginning. It’s the framework of the house, not the finished home. You can walk through it and recognize the shape of what it’s meant to be, but it still needs walls, paint, light, and a few doors that actually close properly. I learned that lesson quickly after sharing my manuscript with what I proudly called my “focus group.” There were ten readers in total—friends, colleagues, and fellow book lovers who volunteered to read an early version. Naively, I expected they’d find the odd typo or a sentence that could use tightening. Maybe someone would question a character’s choice or suggest a stronger ending to a chapter. Instead, what I received was far more valuable. Some readers left just a comment or two, small things I could fix in a single sitting. Others filled pages with notes, ideas, and thoughtful observations. They caught inconsistencies I hadn’t noticed, moments where a character’s reaction didn’t feel true, or scenes that needed more emotional weight. A few even spotted connections I hadn’t intended but decided to keep because they made the story stronger. It was humbling—and eye-opening. At first, I’ll admit, it stung a little. When you spend months living inside a story, you start to see it as something personal, almost sacred. Every line feels deliberate. Every word feels necessary. And then someone points to a paragraph you loved and says, “This doesn’t quite work,” or “I’m confused here.” You nod politely, but inside you think, Wait… what do you mean? But after a day or two, I started to see what they meant. They weren’t breaking my story—they were helping me build it better. I can’t overstate how grateful I am for those readers. Their dedication, their honesty, and even their disagreements pushed the book to a place I couldn’t have reached on my own. Some of them only offered a few comments, but they noticed things others didn’t. Others gave detailed feedback that challenged me to rethink entire sections. Every suggestion, big or small, became part of the process. And that’s when I realized something else: writing a book isn’t a solitary act, not really. It starts that way, sure—just you, the keyboard, and your imagination—but at some point, you need other eyes, other hearts, to help you see what your own can’t. The story may come from one person, but it grows through many. Looking back now, I see those first three months for what they were: the sprint that leads to the marathon. Writing the first draft was exhilarating, but finishing it was not the end—it was the invitation to begin again. To go deeper. To see the story not as it was, but as it could be. The Idiom Stones is still evolving. It’s slowly becoming the story I want it to be—the one I imagined when I first dreamed of those strange, yellow stones half-buried in the forest. I’m not rushing the process anymore. I’ve learned that great stories take time, and sometimes, they need a few generous readers to hold up a mirror and show you what’s missing. To those ten early readers—my focus group, my first audience—I’ll always be grateful. You reminded me that writing isn’t just about words on a page. It’s about connection, reflection, and the quiet courage to make something better than it was yesterday. And to anyone following along: if you’ve ever thought about writing a book, I hope this encourages you to start. Just start. Write for two hours a day, or twenty minutes, or however long you can. The first draft will come faster than you think—and the real work, the meaningful work, begins the moment you finish it.
After completing two short stories—False Heaven and Errands—as part of my fiction writing course, I decided it was time to take the next step in my writing journey. I wanted professional, honest feedback—something that would challenge me to refine my work and prepare it for publication. That’s what led me to The Manuscript Academy, a platform that connects writers with literary agents, editors, and published authors for one-on-one consultations. I booked a critique session with author Anne Elliott, whose own short fiction has appeared in numerous literary journals. (You can learn more about her work here: anneelliottstories.com ). The Value of Expert Eyes The session with Anne was one of the most valuable experiences I’ve had so far as a writer. She approached my work with care and precision, offering not just general impressions, but detailed, actionable feedback. One of her most insightful comments focused on my handling of flashbacks—how transitions between present and past scenes could flow more naturally. She pointed out where my cues were too subtle and where they were overemphasized, showing me how small adjustments could help readers move through time more seamlessly. It was the kind of feedback that instantly clicked—the sort that makes you see your own work differently. It reminded me that even after months of writing and revising, there’s always another level of refinement waiting just beyond what you can see on your own. Submitting to Literary Journals Following our conversation, I took Anne’s advice to heart and revised both stories before submitting them to a range of literary journals and writing contests. I was amazed to discover just how many opportunities exist for short fiction writers—over 500 journals and contests, each with their own style, audience, and submission guidelines. It was both exciting and overwhelming. I quickly realized that publishing short fiction requires patience, persistence, and a willingness to embrace uncertainty. Many journals take several weeks—or even months—to reply, and in the meantime, there’s not much to do but wait. It’s a familiar rhythm in the writing world: hurry up, then wait. You send your work into the world full of hope and adrenaline, and then the quiet begins. But I’ve come to see that quiet as necessary—a space where growth happens in the background. Building Credibility Through Small Wins Part of why I’m pursuing short story publication is to build credibility as an emerging author. Having shorter works appear in journals not only helps me grow as a writer, but also strengthens my future submissions when I begin pitching my larger projects, like The Idiom Stones and my in-progress adult thriller. Short fiction is a kind of creative laboratory. It forces you to focus, to experiment, and to sharpen your storytelling instincts in a condensed space. Each story teaches something new—about pacing, tone, character, and the elusive art of leaving just enough unsaid. The Ongoing Journey I’m still waiting to hear back from several journals and contests where I’ve submitted False Heaven and Errands. Rejections are part of the process, of course, but so is hope. Each submission feels like a small act of faith—sending a story into the world and trusting that somewhere, it will find its right reader. Working with Anne Elliott was a reminder that writing is not a solitary pursuit. It’s a conversation—between writer and mentor, writer and reader, writer and self. I’m deeply grateful for her insight and would highly recommend her to anyone looking for professional feedback and guidance in the world of short fiction. This stage of the process may be slower, but it’s also one of the most rewarding. It’s where the craft sharpens, confidence builds, and patience takes root. For now, I’ll keep revising, submitting, and learning. I’ll keep working on the bigger projects while celebrating the smaller steps along the way. The journey to publication isn’t fast—but it is full of meaning, and I’m grateful to be walking it.
Every writer has a moment when a story grabs hold and refuses to let go. For me, that moment came in the middle of the night. I woke from a dream so vivid that it felt less like a dream and more like a memory from a place I hadn’t yet been. In it, there was a path of worn yellow stones, half-buried in the forest floor. Each one was carved with strange phrases—idioms, like “Bite the Bullet” and “Break the Ice.” I remember standing in that forest, wondering what would happen if those sayings were real—if words could shape the world. When I woke, I scribbled the idea down, and that spark eventually became my first novel, The Idiom Stones. At first, I thought it would be an adult thriller—after all, that’s the kind of story I usually imagine myself writing. My literary influences are firmly planted in that space. I’ve always admired the psychological depth of Stephen King, the curiosity-driven storytelling of Malcolm Gladwell, and the relentless pacing of Dan Brown. They each approach the human condition in such different ways—King through fear and empathy, Gladwell through questions that challenge how we think, and Brown through intellect and adrenaline. I suppose I wanted to blend those instincts somehow. But as The Idiom Stones took shape, it became clear the story wanted to be something else entirely. The characters who arrived on the page were kids—twelve and thirteen years old—on the edge of growing up, caught between friendship and fear, between childhood magic and the weight of what it means to be responsible. It wasn’t a conscious decision to write for a younger audience; it simply felt right. And somewhere along the way, I realized I was writing the kind of story I would have loved to discover as a kid. I’m glad I followed it where it wanted to go. If there’s one story that has stayed with me over the years, it’s Stephen King’s The Long Walk. There’s something about its simplicity and cruelty, the endurance of its characters, and the quiet horror of what people will do to survive, that’s never left me. When I heard it was finally being adapted for film, I was thrilled. I can’t wait to see how they capture that haunting tone on screen. That story taught me that speculative fiction doesn’t have to be about monsters—it can be about us. About choice, fear, and the fragile threads that hold us together. Writing The Idiom Stones has been the most challenging and rewarding creative experience of my life. It reminded me that inspiration can come from anywhere—a dream, a memory, a question you can’t stop asking. For me, it started with a single image: a forest path paved in idioms. Where it leads… well, I suppose that’s what the story is for. Thank you for stopping by and reading my very first blog post. I’m excited to share more about my process, my inspirations, and the journey of turning ideas into stories. Follow along here as I navigate life as a new, aspiring author—one dream (and one draft) at a time.