To paraphrase Fürst von Bismarck, I am product of the state educational system. Until recently, I never wrote much as a hobby. I would occasionally think to myself, “I should write a book,” write about thirty pages in AuDHD (I suspect) fury, and then the manuscript would go nowhere but remain on my computer’s desktop or in a file folder somewhere. However, while not to brag, I consistently received praise for my writing from teachers and professors. What I ultimately required was structure in writing, which law school and interning and clerking for judges provided, and an impetus.
The impetus for writing as a form of self-expression outside of the confines of academia and my career was a suggestion by my therapist to journal to express underlying anxieties. Why does banal, meaningless corporate banter irk me and raise my anxiety? Why am I bothered by an overhead vent? What sets me off from clinking of a spoon against a coffee mug? At the time, I was returning to the workforce after a mental breakdown, thus, I required something to calm my nerves. Writing down, analyzing, and solving my anxieties did that.
In 2024, I decided to brush up on reading. But often, what I read made me think, “I can write better than this.” I eventually got so fed up with mediocre, middling prose that I decided to begin writing a manuscript. This I did between October 2024 and January 2025, with editing occurring from January to March 2025, before submitting it to a developmental editor. This is where I am now, with Fifteen Miles, my queer bildungsroman.
The rest, to quote Gandalf, remains to be seen.