Dearest Gentle Reader,

(Sorry for the Bridgerton salutation. I watched Queen Charlotte recently, and it just came naturally.)

You may have noticed it’s been a hot minute since I posted anything besides my weekly Heart Sounds chapters (if you're reading this post on my website, you can find those over on my substack). And if you’ve been following along with Nora’s story, thank you.

The truth is, now that the flurry of activity surrounding the launch is over, my well of motivation when it comes to marketing and “hyping myself” is running a little dry.

I am what you might call an extroverted introvert. From the outside, people might think I’m an extrovert, but the truth is, whenever I’m in a social setting with more than a few people—or with people I don’t know well—I’m usually at least a little riddled with awkwardness and anxiety.

And yet, I enjoy it. I love people. I’m curious about them. I love learning about their lives and what makes them tick. I’m an empath at heart. Maybe that’s part of why I’m drawn to fiction. There’s something magical about creating a character and truly getting to know them—about experiencing a totally different reality through their eyes.

But usually, at the end of a social function like that—especially if the attention has been focused on me—I need a day to recover. It drains my battery.

I also have a full-time job that I love very much, but I spend a lot of time having heavy conversations with people who are making life-altering decisions about careers in the helping professions. Most of the people I talk to in my day-to-day work life are empaths themselves, and those conversations can carry a lot of emotional weight.

Add to all of this the fact that marketing myself—asking people not only to buy something, but to spend their time reading something I basically just made up—does not come naturally to me.

I was a very shy kid who was often made fun of: glasses, super skinny, and then suddenly pudgy thanks to puberty. I was an awkward teenager. And although I’ve mostly grown out of that—thank goodness, since I’m almost 52, after all—the thought of calling attention to myself and leaving myself open to judgment and criticism still pushes me out of my comfort zone.

So posting about my book, asking people to read it and leave reviews, feels unnatural to me. Not just unnatural. Performative.

Because in the rawest place inside myself, I don’t feel worthy. I feel like a fraud.

I have a book signing today at a local bookstore in The Villages, and it is taking everything in my power to go. This is my first event since my launch almost two months ago, and right now it feels pointless and silly. But I also know that the longer I do nothing—the longer I let myself sit in this “who am I kidding?” hole—the harder it will be to climb out.

So I’ll go. I’ll set up a table and bring my books and my favorite gold-brown Sharpie that almost matches the color of my cover, along with my sign and my stickers. And hopefully I’ll meet a few new readers. Maybe, if the planets align, I’ll walk away feeling more like an author and less like an imposter.

Oh, Gentle Reader, if you have ever felt—even a little—that you are not enough and kept showing up anyway, I see you.