When I was growing up, I spent my summers writing. My motherâs creaky ThinkPad laptop had a red ballpoint mouse in the middle of the keyboard; I brought it with me wherever I went and put myself to work. I was always scared shitless of rollercoasters, so during the annual day my family went to Disneyland, I tinkered away on the ThinkPad at the house we rented in the Pacific Palisades (RIP). I was learning to type just as much as I was learning the craft of writing stories. Looking back, being a budding novelist aged 14 in Los Angeles was extremely chic. I was living rent-free, with all my meals and transportation paid for, a privilege I can only dream of now. When we then traveled up north to Donner Lake and beyond, I brought the ThinkPad out onto wooden picnic benches with views of the great meadows, or onto the porch at my family friendâs summer house that was nestled at the end of a cul-de-sac filled with pine trees. There, swaying gently on a rocking chair, I typed and edited and typed some more, perfecting every terribly overly-extended metaphor.
I got the idea to write a novel from my Year 9 English teacher, Miss Fryer. She was a gaunt woman with a short, black bob. She used colored makeup pencils to shape her thin features, and she had a somewhat haunting look. But when I wrote something good, or we read a passage from a text she liked, her eyes widened, and she nodded with utmost seriousness, as if she was warmed and awakened by the words.
âYesâŠâ sheâd say airily.
After I told her that Iâd applied to the Vogue Young Writerâs Competition, Miss Fryer gave me a clipping of a story sheâd cut out of a newspaper. It was about one of her other students, Catherine Webb, who wrote and published her first novel around the same age that I was, and did it all in a single summer holiday. Huh! I thought to myself. Writing and publishing a novel? Well, it canât be that hard. And so, every summer, from the age of 14 to about 20, I dedicated myself to writing, and repeatedly beat myself up because it was taking way longer than I expected. I later found out that both of Catherine Webbâs parents were distinguished book publishers, so getting a book deal had been more of a walk in the park for her.
Share this with a friend from high school! đ€
Unfortunately for me, life and external expectations soon got in the way of my writing. I had wanted to study English Literature (at Oxford, no less), but towards the end of high school, I set my sights on making lots of money and making my parents, their fancy friends, and even my fancier private schools proud. I tucked my book away in my metaphorical Dropbox drawer. I was attending The Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania to study business. I didnât have time for the frivolous pursuit of writing teen romance fiction!
Well, unsurprisingly, a good part of me died once I declared that to myself, or at least lay dormant for years after. As I squashed my dreams further down inside of me, ignoring the purest version of myself I had known until that point, I promised myself that I would publish my novel and write when I retired (and once I had made a gazillion dollars, of course). It seemed like a fair trade. Squash, squash, squash. Swallow the dreams whole and push them down. I became a shell of my former, inspired teenage self. The world felt hollow, empty, and sad. I hated my various tech jobs, and either got fired or quit.
Luckily, in a feat that I truly had never expected, particularly after being set off course by the pandemic, I ended up taking lots of magic mushrooms, moving to Mexico City, and digging deep after recovering from a near-death experience (trigger warning!) that left me with PTSD. I charted a new course back to writing. I joined writing communities, took writing classes, and met authors. It took me a few more years, but at 28, I finally self-published my first novel in September 2023. Of course, I cried when I opened up the first box of my books. After the topsy-turvy routes and iterations of self I had gone through to get there, who wouldnât?
Some years later, in June 2026, I joined a book group. Determined to challenge my negative self-belief that Iâm a bad reader, I soon found myself huddled around a cozy table at a restaurant with the lovely ladies (and one lovely gentleman) of the group. We had just read âYesteryearâ by Caro Claire Burke, and we were coming out of a dive into the extremes of trad-wifery after enjoying clinking glasses of wine, kale salads, and slices of pizza.
At the end of the evening, the group rep said,
âNow itâs time for us to vote on next monthâs book.â
I had never been part of the book-voting process before, but we each took turns pitching various books under the topic of Beach Reads. I thought, why not pitch my book and try to get the group to read it? I gave them a rundown,
âWell, my novel is âThese Perfectly Careless Things.â Itâs a coming-of-age story about two teenagers in London, and all the messy, fun things that teenagers do when theyâre trying stuff they shouldnât be for the first time. Thereâs a lot of drinking and spice in it. If youâve ever watched Skins, itâs kind of like that, but for posh kids set in London in 2010. It fits the Beach Read theme well, I think.â
Others around the table pitched their books, and then it was time for us to vote. I closed my eyes, as I assumed was the plan.
âSo, we each get two votes. First up, who wants to vote for âThese Perfectly Careless Thingsâ?â
I kept my eyes closed, hesitating. I didnât want to put myself out there too much and seem arrogant, you know? The other books pitched all sounded good, so maybe I would vote for those instead.
âYouâre allowed to vote for your own book, you know,â the group rep said.
I debated another second. Then I sheepishly raised my hand.
âOkay, so five votes for âThese Perfectly Careless Thingsâ.â
âWhatââ I said, opening my eyes. Everyone else sat there perfectly normally, eyes open. A couple of them were smiling, even.
âYour book sounds really interesting. Iâm excited to read it,â one woman said.
I let out a small squeak of shock. My vision slowly split in two, bursting with color. A warm rush of energy swelled in my shoulders. Every single person at the table had used one of their votes for my book. So, basically, we were going to read my book. I mean, it was already decided. This was the first book club reading of my work, ever. And I could chat to them about it in a Q&A afterward, of sorts. And maybe I would host it at my house. Iâd never had so many people agree to read my work together at the same time, all four of them. I had been so unsure of voting for my own book as well. But everyone else around the table hadnât even hesitated. What did they see in me that I couldnât see in myself?
As we finished up the meetup and said our goodbyes, my world was still a blur. It was drizzling lightly as I put on my bright yellow helmet and hopped on an Ecobici, part of Mexico Cityâs shared bike system. I canât remember what song I was listening to on my AirPods. The excitement, the potential of where this could go, and what this meant to me, all came to a head as I crossed from San Miguel Chapultepec into Condesa and stopped at the traffic lights. I leaned my bicycle to one side in the bike lane alongside the small pedestrian island as the freeway traffic on Constituyentes raced before me.
I thought back to my teenage self, writing so adamantly every summer. The care she put into crafting and editing every version of every chapter, making time to dedicate herself amongst the pine trees, or at the sunlit bedroom desk in the Palisades. I thought back to my business-school self, denying myself the dream of writing until I had retired. The dread of waking up every day to go to work, feeling eternally lost, and the jarring incongruence between myself and my surroundings. And now I was my present self, who had actually published the book decades before I ever thought I would, and who was about to discuss it with real readers in my first book group ever. This was my bright spot in the middle of the most depressing and wettest summer in Mexico I had ever experienced in four years here. My throat clenched up, a telltale sign. I let a single, happy tear fall from my right eye into the messy chaos of the damp night and speeding engines.
We discussed âThese Perfectly Careless Thingsâ one month later in the cozy light of my living room over white wine and a charcuterie board. I fielded their questions and valid critiques about the plot points and the pacing of the story. I got to relive all the most vivid scenes of Abbieâs journey with them: getting birth control from the doctor. Getting her period. The sex scenes and self-pleasure scene that I could only have written at 27 because I had no words or concept for them at 14. And the cringe of coming-of-age, of finding out who you are, when the opinions of your teenage peers feel like they make or break you.
I also told them the story I just shared with you about how this book came to be and all the versions of myself it took to create it. My present self was no longer beating my head against a wall at a tech job, unpublished. Instead, I was now wrestling with comparing myself to the far more commercially successful books the group mentioned. Those felt like nips of pinpricks, distracting me for more of the evening than Iâd like to admit. This new problem is strange and satisfying, and is one Iâm grateful to have.
When I think back to my teenage self, I think about her dedication and her ambitions all those summers ago. Her love hurls towards me through the decades, even now. She is here with me still, just beneath the surface of my fingertips. I thank her. At age 14, she knew something that I didnât. I feel her presence as I sit down, and I keep writing.
Donât miss out on my updates! đ
This story is in honor of my 3rd authorversary since publishing âThese Perfectly Careless Thingsâ đđđ„!
More about My Novel Journey
Extra Treats đŹ
My Online Writing Course âïž
âAwakeningâ is my first online Intimacy Writing course! It costs $30, and in it, youâll get a 1:1 guided writing session with the poem, prompts, and writing accountability from me right there on the screen. Misseducated readers get 20% off with code INTIMACY at checkout!
What Iâm Currently Listening To đ§
I hadnât listened to this song in ages, but it keeps me inspired and headed on my way:
Keep in touch! đ„°
