For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a writer. It was a hunger, like the pull of the sea, something I couldn’t shake. In fourth grade, I wrote my first “book,” driven by the real-life wonder of finding a horse in my backyard. My grandfather and I approached it with sugar cubes, marveling at our good fortune, until a stranger arrived to take the horse away. I turned the experience into a story, complete with dialogue and—recklessly—one curse word. I expected admiration. Instead, my grandmother frowned, my teacher scolded, and the first spark of my storytelling confidence was snuffed out. I learned then to write in secret, to tuck my stories away like treasure buried beneath the tide.
But a love like that doesn’t stay buried forever. In college, I found it again. An essay I submitted earned me a spot in the honors English program, and for a while, I let myself believe that writing was where I belonged. But books cost money—more money than I had—and I turned away from English, wandering instead into Geography, Latin American History, and Environmental Studies. At night, though, I sent stories into the world, testing the waters, wondering if anyone would notice. Then, one day, Guideposts Magazine did. They published a short story of mine. And for the first time, I wondered—could I really be a writer?
Reality had other plans. A degree loomed, a career needed choosing. I started a housekeeping business and enrolled in the Institute of Children’s Literature, convinced I would write my first novel. And I did. The book followed a girl in foster care on a wild adventure to save her family. I sent it out to publisher after publisher, collecting rejection after rejection, until finally, an editor responded. They were interested—if I was willing to revise. And what did I do? I never wrote back. Instead, I stuffed the manuscript into a shoebox, moved to Florida, and became a teacher.
For years, the stories stayed beneath the surface. But in 2010, the tide turned again. A personal essay I submitted to The St. Petersburg Times was accepted—and paid for. Two hundred dollars. It might as well have been two million. I cried for three days. I thought maybe, just maybe, writing had been waiting for me all along. But when the excitement faded, I stayed in the classroom. I stayed for another decade. Then, in 2021, I walked away. People told me I’d regret it. That I’d end up penniless. That I was making a mistake. But I had more horses to write about.
Writing, I’ve come to realize, is like the rhythm of the tides. There are moments when it pulls away, when doubt and responsibility drag us from the shore. But low tide reveals what’s been waiting beneath the surface all along—forgotten dreams, abandoned stories, the pieces of ourselves we thought we had lost. And eventually, if we listen, the tide will rise again, carrying us back to where we belong.
Now, here I am, at the beginning of another chapter. This blog is a reflection of the things that call to me—the craft of writing, the power of language, the magic of storytelling. Some posts will be about the art itself, offering guidance to those who, like me, have ever wondered if they could really be a writer. Others will be about the world outside my window—the birds I spot, the animals I meet on hikes, the plants I learn to name. And some will be about the winding road that led me here.
If you’ve ever dreamed of writing but let life get in the way, I hope this space encourages you to begin again. My advice? Learn to take criticism, even when it comes from those you love most. Use it. Grow from it. But above all else—never stop writing. Writing is everything. It’s how we navigate the world, how we capture the beauty in the everyday, and how we unveil the extraordinary landscapes within ourselves. To write is to let our guard down. To strip away the safe and the ordinary. To lay bare the intricate, messy, and fascinating worlds we carry inside. It takes courage. But in doing so, we invite others to explore those hidden depths alongside us.
Get out into the world, then come back and write about it. If I can do it, you can too. Let’s unveil the extraordinary in the everyday—one story at a time.
Welcome to my journey.
~ L.S.