I should really say it’s the spawning of new life, but frankly that feels far too distant and impossible. I didn’t believe my first child was real, was going to survive, until a few months after her birth. This one seems to be following suit. It is kumquat-sized atm, and I feel like every time I puke each morning the compression of my stomach will surely pop the little fruit.

I mean, being pregnant is a weird example of a creative act. It’s an act of creation, I guess. It’s kind of the easiest one, now that I’m thinking about it. Like, last time I didn’t even do any of the things you’re supposed to do: I didn’t abstain from everything from lunchmeat to booze, and the baby came out small and sick. But she was still created.

This time it’s easier to do the things because I’m already abstaining from booze and drugs, to put it mildly. Have been sober nearly four years now, and the math of my kid being five reveals something to everyone who knows both, but that doesn’t matter. “What other people think of you is none of your business,” an old sponsor of mine liked to say.

So I should say that, that it’s the life sparking kumquat-sized now in my gut, making me puke each morning and ache each night. Pushing my hips in preparation for an act neither of us is anywhere near ready for. I’d like to say it’s that.

Unfortunately for the little kumquat, I’m also beginning indie publishing this year.

My story of self-publishing does not start with a bang and it doesn’t start with a flop. It starts with a quiet, simmering rage.

My first book I queried wide and far. I don’t think I really knew self-publishing was a real option. My cousin is traditionally published in her christian non-fiction, and often sneers out the words – self published – as if it’s a vile swear all its own.

I got a few requests for fulls and partials. At this point I deepened my research into what was to happen next, and I realized something immensely dissatisfying.

See. Writing, for me – especially now I’m sober – has been like bathing my inner child. Dressing them in the warmest footy pajamas, and then applying a band aide to a booboo right on their chin.

Querying had been like trying to sell that band aide to the highest bidder.

It was then that I started looking, as if delving into the dark web in secret, into other options.

After a month of research and still no response from most of the folks with my manuscript (as well as another manuscript in the works) I ripped off my own band aide. I emailed the lot of them with a gentle “thanks, but no thanks” and waited for the world to implode.

It didn’t. A few responded immediately with form rejections, as if to say, this was my idea. One responded with a long email proclaiming we might someday meet again! Sure, maybe.

So I started my trip here. I reached out to the only editor who’s free thousand word edit on my first manuscript had made me feel like it got better from her diligence. I told her about my new book. I partnered with an artist to illustrate my novella trilogy, and put my first book up for pre-order to little fanfare. There’s only two pre-orders. One is definitely my grandmother. I don’t mind. My debut is coming soon as everything’s ready.

I started an author vlog. Got a few views, which is an accomplishment when drugs made you toothless and sobriety made you fat. I continued my current blog, and I pinched pennies to pay for cover designs, formatting software, and editing. Excitement built. Everything feels fizzy, these days, light and popping. I am really doing it.

Now, I’m all set to release at least two books in 2024. And a baby. Right, yeah. Can’t forget the baby might just live.