I’m in that funny place where my memoir, The Way She Tells It: Family, Madness, and the Choice to Let Truth Stand Unchanged, is technically finished…but not finished finished.
The bulk of the writing is done—the chapters are written, revised, and reshuffled more times than I can count. The narrative arc is set. The emotional heavy lifting is behind me. And yet, the to-do list refuses to die.
I’ve still got cover art decisions to make. Front matter, back matter, author bios. A quick proofread for those tiny, yet important, things I missed. It’s the kind of work that’s both exciting and exhausting—because while it means the finish line is close, it also reminds me that “The End” is never quite the end.
Some days, I feel a surge of pride and relief: I’ve carried this story this far. I’m so close. Other days, I’m a little lost, caught between the momentum of finishing and the fear of what comes after.
Because here’s the thing no one tells you—or at least no one told me: finishing a big writing project can feel like a loss. It’s as if the characters and memories you’ve lived with for months—or years—start slowly packing up their boxes and moving out, leaving echoes behind.
And that’s why, in the middle of tying up all these loose ends, I’m also reaching for something new. Something bright and different and alive.
Her name is Sienna.
She’s bold, curious, and a little bit mischievous, with a head full of bright red curls and a restless urge to climb anything in sight. In her world, fences and monkey bars aren’t obstacles—they’re invitations.
Sienna showed up in my imagination recently, practically demanding her own early reader chapter book. And honestly, her timing couldn’t be better. Slight problem, though: I’ve never even thought about writing an early reader—and I’m not entirely sure what that even means. But there’s something about the challenge of distilling story into its most essential elements, of crafting something that pulses with life in just a few pages, that feels exactly right for where I am creatively.
As I’m winding down the memoir—the cover art decisions, the front and back matter, the proofing—Sienna has become my bright, bouncing escape hatch. She’s pulling me into a different kind of writing, one that feels lighter and full of possibility.
Unlike my memoir, which dives deep into memory and emotion, Sienna’s story bursts with color and movement. She’s a kid who feels the world through her bare feet, who can predict rainstorms by the way the ground vibrates, who can twist into a split in the middle of dodgeball and leave everyone staring.
But she’s also a kid who’s struggling to fit into a new city where climbing fences is frowned upon and people don’t understand why shoes feel like prisons. She’s homesick for open spaces, for the farm and the hayloft, for the feeling of wind in her hair. Until one day, she glimpses a sign for a circus school—and suddenly sees a place where being upside down isn’t weird…it’s wonderful.
Writing Sienna’s story is reminding me how joyful it can be to invent. To build a character from scratch. To imagine circus silks streaming from the rafters, bright lights bouncing off trapezes, and a girl discovering she doesn’t have to hide who she is.
And maybe that’s why I’m so grateful for her right now. She’s helping me bridge the gap between a project that’s almost finished and the creative unknown waiting on the other side. She’s proof that endings don’t have to feel empty—they can be the doorway into something entirely new.
The Pull of Two Worlds
Of course, part of me wonders if I’m slightly out of my mind to start something new while still wrapping up something so big.
There’s a voice in my head—the practical one—that says I should finish the memoir completely before diving into Sienna’s story. Close one door before opening the next. Check off every box on the publishing to-do list, tie it all up with a neat bow, and then—and only then—begin again.
But the truth is, my creative brain doesn’t work that way.
Finishing a memoir isn’t just about pages and proofs—it’s about letting go of a version of myself that’s been living in those pages for years. It’s about stepping out of the emotional landscape I’ve been writing through and figuring out what comes next. And that transition can feel like stepping off a cliff if I don’t have something else to catch me.
That’s why Sienna feels like the perfect bridge.
She’s giving me somewhere to channel my energy while I’m waiting on cover drafts or tackling the minutiae of front and back matter. She’s a reminder that even as one story winds down, there’s always another one waiting to begin.
And creatively, it feels like a gift.
The shift from memoir to early reader fiction is a chance to stretch new writing muscles. Shorter sentences. Playful language. Scenes that move quickly, packed with emotion and humor. Sienna’s world is helping me remember why I fell in love with writing in the first place: the pure delight of story.
Embracing the Messy Middle
So I’m letting myself work on both at once—finishing the memoir while peeking into Sienna’s world. It’s messy and far from linear. But it’s keeping me grounded and excited all at once.
Because if there’s one thing I’m learning, it’s that creativity doesn’t always wait politely for the perfect moment. Sometimes it barges in, red curls flying, demanding to be heard.
And maybe that’s exactly what I need right now.
So that’s where I am right now—living in the in-between. One foot in the final stages of my memoir, the other stepping into Sienna’s vibrant, upside-down world.
It’s a strange, exhilarating place to be. And honestly, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Because even as I’m tying up loose ends, I’m reminded that creativity is always moving forward, pulling us into new adventures whether we feel ready or not.
Here’s to letting our feet leave the ground sometimes—and trusting we’ll land exactly where we’re meant to be.