From Pages to People: The Beautiful Chaos of Becoming an Author

If you told past me that one day I’d be standing in front of real-life humans, talking about a book I wrote, I would’ve laughed so hard I'd choke on my iced coffee. Because let’s be honest: writing the book? Weirdly easier than trying to explain it without sounding like I escaped a fantasy cult.

Since diving into self-publishing, I’ve tripped, sprinted, and occasionally crawled through a world I never imagined — full of passionate readers, wildly creative minds, and small businesses who somehow decided, “Yes, her chaotic energy feels right for us.”

What no one warns you about is the sheer mental breakdown potential of formatting. Or how marketing suddenly turns you into a TikTok director, meme strategist, and SEO wizard — all while pretending you have any idea what ROI means. I don’t. Still don’t.

But here’s the thing: this mess? It’s also magic. Because I’ve found my people. Other authors who have cried over Canva layouts, emotionally bonded with fictional characters, and cheered each other on through existential meltdowns. It’s like a support group, but with more glitter and less sleep.

One of the most unexpectedly wholesome chapters? Indie businesses taking a chance on me. When Squirrel & Sparrow (yes, the actual dreamiest bookshop name ever) said they wanted to stock my book, I nearly combusted. Like — fully had to sit down, breathe into a tote bag, and resist the urge to scream into the void. Their belief in my story made me believe a little more in myself, too.

Then there’s The Scented Pages, who somehow looked at my dramatic characters and said, “Let’s turn their chaos into candles.” And friends, she did. Together, we created scents that literally smell like fire, heartbreak, and trauma bonding. And in the middle of mixing notes of sandalwood and storm clouds, we built a beautiful friendship — one wick at a time.

And just when I thought it couldn’t get more surreal, I found myself at my first-ever author retreat. Yes, I panicked. Yes, I blacked out during the “So what’s your book about?” question. But I also got to sit in a room full of dreamers, give advice, and pretend I had my life together — which is basically half of being an author, right? And someone actually asked for my plot feedback. Me! The girl who once named a sword “Steve” because she was tired.

Next up? My first market stalls. Picture me: surrounded by books, candles, and way too much glitter, probably stress-sweating and pretending I know how to run an EFTPOS machine. I’m nervous. I’m excited. I’m praying I don’t knock over my own display five minutes in. But mostly, I can’t wait to meet more readers, chat stories, and gently force my chaotic babies into people’s hands like a proud gremlin mother.

This whole journey? It's messy. It’s exhausting. And it’s filled with moments I never thought I’d live — from crying over my first reader review to doing a happy dance when someone said they’d re-read my book “just to feel pain again.” Iconic.

The pages brought me here. But it’s the people — the ones who read, share, support, and scream with me in the DMs — who keep me writing.