According to my calendar, one year ago today was the first day I started seriously shopping a novel for publication.

That is, one year ago today I was sitting looking at a (mostly) polished manuscript, a query letter, and a list of agents.

Ten days from today, one year ago, I got my first request for a partial. It’d take around twenty similar cycles before I finally found a home.

Today, I am in the process of:

  1. copyedits on my first book
  2. structural edits on my second
  3. plotting out my third
  4. dreaming of all the places I can go after that.

In roughly four months (and one week),Β Liesmith will be let loose into the world, a fully grown cultural and commercial product. Written and nurtured and gutted and rewritten and polished and gutted again and built back up and dressed in its graduate best.

One year ago today, I wasn’t a “professional” author, either in the “have made money from my writing” or the “have traditional publishing contract” sense. Today, I qualify on both.

Twenty-five years ago today. I dreamt of being an author.

Today, I am.

Here’s to another twenty-five.