Giving & Receiving: A Writer’s First Month in Print

June was a ride. 

I launched a book. An actual four hundred and eight page historical novel that you can buy at Walmart or Barnes & Noble or Amazon. After twenty days on the open market, there are one hundred and two copies of Sugarcane Saint floating out there in a dozen states and at least four countries. Each on its own journey. 

The thing we all know about books is that they are natural travelers. Books get handed around or left at beach houses or tossed into the donation pile. Someone else picks them up, opens to the first page and steps into the story. One hundred and two copies of Sugarcane Saint—whispering words, stirring thoughts, triggering revelations I may never know. I can already see one (hopefully some time from now) gathering dust in the far corner of a second hand bookstore, waiting patiently for its next reader. Maybe someone took notes in the margins or dog-earred half the pages. The idea of this makes me giddy. 

Over the past month, I’ve learned something. I’ve personally delivered eighteen books to the doorsteps of their new owners (local personal delivery is available on the website!). I’ve met the eyes of a dozen bookstore owners and librarians as I passed the one pound and seven ounces of written word from my hands to theirs. The most humbling moment of all was standing at the launch party at Morven Park, looking out over a full house, and reading from Sugarcane Saint for the first time. 

Here’s what I’ve come to believe: The passing of a story is an act of community. 

It was never just me alone, tapping away on my laptop. Yes, it had to start there—this heavy and twisted tale that at its core screams: be better, be stronger, be wiser. But this story—this warning of the dangers of dysfunctional family structures—dies on my own lips if no one stops to listen. The story crumbles like a buried body if the village chooses to close their doors. The girl at the center of it, Ruth, vanishes.

These past weeks, as I’ve placed the beginning of Ruth’s story into the hands of others, I’ve listened too. I’ve heard new stories in return. And something has begun to shimmer at the edges of my understanding: we carry our own stories, yes—but we also carry each other’s. Seeds of people and places and experiences are planted with each telling. We are both secret-keepers and secret-whisperers. Storytelling. Storylistening. Storykeeping. Storypassing. It is one of the most communal acts of humanity. It is part of the cycle of time.

New friends at the Queen Anne Bookstore in Seattle.

On my tour of Loudoun County libraries, I felt something I’d never felt before. Not just the presence of books, but the presence of their authors. I felt the hope, the fear, the grit it takes to write a story and release it into the world. I felt the trust. Trust that someone will listen. Trust that someone will pass it on. That sacred rhythm—telling, listening, passing, receiving. The eternal exchange between storyteller and storykeeper. The tall library shelves murmured with the sound of words passing from one human to another in order to complete the cycle. Breathtaking.

I’ve engaged in various marketing platforms over the last few weeks– Amazon, socials, list placement–all the things. And I’ll continue because we can’t opt out of the great American marketplace. But I’ve also started building my calendar of festivals and literary events—not just as an author, but as a reader. I will be at the Lincoln Theatre in southern Virginia the last weekend in July. The North Georgia Regional Bookfair in Dahlonega Georgia in mid-September will be my first literary fair. In November, I will have the honor of speaking to my home community. 

Not as a marketing strategy (though of course that is relevant) but because I feel something sacred, near divine, when I pass this story into the hands of another. And even more so, I’ve begun to understand my part as the storylistener. I’ve begun to see that the listening–and then the passing—is essential to the very life of any story. I want to be a part of all of it. We are not alone in the telling. And we are not alone in the listening. The story—all stories—can only fully exist in a concentric cycle of giving and receiving.