So I released my first novel last month, after six years of hard work and doubt. I am now a published author, and I found myself thinking about young Emilie.
Tiny seven, eight, or nine years old Emilie, with her neatly trimmed bangs, her freckles and her little round glasses.
Tiny Emilie wanted to become an author. She looked up to Anne Shirley, Emily Starr and Jo March, and she wanted to write books. She wrote short stories starring cats and dogs, which she illustrated herself. She wrote clumsy poetry about autumn, with metaphors lifted straight from the pages of the heroines she admired. She started a lot of projects. Some were rip-offs of Anne of Green Gables. Some of Lord of the Rings. She never finished any of them.
Eventually, society told her that being an author is not a valid dream. Nobody actually becomes an author. It’s something that only happens to others. Tiny Emilie had to grow up and find real ambitions. Become a teacher, for example. A translator, maybe. She looked everywhere, for a long time, but nothing really appealed to her.
But she kept writing. She discovered fanfiction via Harry Potter, and from fandom to fandom, she honed her skill.
Until Bobby, the man that is now my husband, took a look at one of her fanfictions, and saw talent. “This is as good as most published stuff,” he said. “You should write a book,” he said.
And so, Not-So-Tiny Emilie dusted off her old dream and got to work.
Six years later, with my book in your hands, I’d like to think Tiny Emilie is proud. I know I am.
I’m trying my hand at blogging. I think I’ll explore subjects such as my writing process, mental health, and writing in fandom. Let me know if there’s anything you want me to talk about!