When you’ve written or are writing a book that you’d like to be published, the traditional route is to shower potentially interested agents at the big publishing houses whose logos adorn books you’ve purchased before with praise. Then, parallel pathing corporate coffers, you attempt to jam yourself into whatever puzzle piece they’re looking to place.
The vehicle for said praise showering is typically an email something called a query letter (Dear person, would you like me?). In many ways, a query letter is a Hail Mary cover letter sent with the understanding and expectation that it’s on its way into the ether. Send a bunch, they say.
Fun, right? Woof.
I sent a few. I slingshotted vulnerability iced with shameless self promotion into the universe only for radio silence to reply. Expected. Not enjoyed.
The more I thought about it, it didn’t make sense. It’s a numbers game, in more ways than one.
I was trying to get through a gatekeeper–a single person, an agent–who would take me to my audience. I was using academic degrees, media mentions, and mental trickery to see if my book could land a job.
Really, though, I could go to my audience myself, by (usually, I promise) listening to those around me, talking to them about what I’m writing, and putting on my own backpack of belief that I had been hoping, honestly, that a big box house would carry for me.
So, no cap, why am I the right person to write this book?
Because I was reeling from my palpable break up with someone who I thought that I would spend the rest of my life with, and with whom I’d already invested several years with (yes, interesting verb choice, I know).
… Fine. And we got a golden pecan of a retriever, Tuna, to put the icing on the cake.
Because I just got laid off for being “too expensive” and I’m now attempting to navigate the feeling that I’m overcharging for my utter incompetence. An untrue story with deep seated grooves.
Because my family dynamics haven’t changed. Nope, not one bit. No new members have been admitted. I’m 378.
Because there’s really no Right Person to write any book. It’s whomever is sanity-adjacent enough to see their googledoc over the line before getting distracted by the shorter feedback loops of really anything (everything) else.
Because I have a PhD in behavioral science and I’ve spent the last two decades–both personal time and not–obsessed with thinking about why we do some things and why we don’t others; more personally, why I think (seemingly insist) certain things and why I have a hard time believing in myself while overestimating the confidence and competence of others with absolute zest.
So, now I’m trying to science (and muscle) my way to where I want to be. And where I want to be is sharing all my personal stories, glories, and shames with you so that we can all feel better about where we are in life.
It–life–may not be how you thought it would be, but I’ll be damned if it can’t be even better.