I wrote a book…

Three years ago, I decided to write a book. Without having a clear idea of where it would take me, I wrote the first chapter, which I enjoyed doing. I had many doubts about actually doing it. I used to ask myself like, why would people read my book? But why wouldn't they?

I tried to hold on to the joy it brought me to finish the first chapter and continued filling up the pages with words and inspiration. Sometimes it felt positive, but other times it didn't feel easy, and I needed a little more encouragement to keep going. I wrote when I was happy, when I was sad, or even when I didn't feel like it. I poured myself into this story, and I finished it. Fast forward to now, I'm proud to say I'm at the final stages of finally getting it out to work. I've spent so much of my time and energy that, at this point, I wish I could give it to the reader and move on with my life.

I've been in this process for three years, and I feel tired. It feels like I've given everything I could to this story, time, effort, and love, but there is still so much more that it needs from me. From finalizing it with the editor to hosting a book launch and the marking. I guess this is the part that no authors like to go through. One of my fears is that the world won't receive it with the same love I'm delivering it. Whatever the outcome, I can say that there isn't any other thing in the world that I'd rather be doing with my life; that alone is enough.