Making a B*tch Market(able) & Prett(ier)

“I held off on this step on purpose. I was terrified of the book becoming a business guide. Motivational fluff. Something you'd find in an airport with a sans-serif font and a tagline about unlocking your potential. That's not this. That's never been this. Me fitting a mold has never been a thing…ever.”

My hair gal has been on maternity leave since October.

I know that sounds like a very small problem in the grand scheme of a life, and it is. Except when your gray hairs are staging a hostile takeover, your Botox has officially expired, and you are deep in the kind of parenting stress that shows up on your face before you even realize it's there — it stops feeling small real fast.

People used to think I was Josey's sister. Maybe it's the tats. Maybe it's the fact that I dress like I have absolutely zero concept of my own age. Maybe it's the perky tits — we don't have to get into it. But the last few weeks? It was obvious. I was the tired, weathered mom. The one who has been pouring herself into something so completely that the outside has been on a soft neglect.

She's back now. My hair is done. I'm 50% improved and still need the Botox situation handled, but we are getting there.

And it hit me in the chair, foils in, neck craned at a weird goose-like angle, that this is exactly what I've been doing to the book.

Pouring everything in. Letting the outside go. Getting it all out before worrying about whether anyone else can see it properly.

Here's what my process has actually looked like — and before you judge, I want you to know that as women, we are constitutionally incapable of just following a map. We take the scenic route. The marathon route. The 'wait, let me rethink the entire framework' route.

1,826 days ago (yes, I did the math, yes it's five years, yes I'm aware) I had an idea, and I started writing it. I thought it was amazing. I was also living the story in real time, which made it basically impossible to articulate. You can't write the ending of something you're still standing inside of.

Life happened. The chapters sat.

Then I finally got it all out — all 26 chapters, everything, the whole mess. And I looked at it and realized that five years ago Becca and today Becca are two very different magnificent people. As you grow, your vision changes. The version of the story you wrote from inside the storm is not the version you'd write once you can see the sky again.

So I rewrote it. 26 chaotic chapters became 18 tighter ones. Still not all the way there.

Round three: the enhancement pass. Humor. Texture. Turning word salad into words that make you laugh, cry, and most importantly — see yourself in me. That's just wrapped up.

And now? Now we're making this b*tch marketable.

I held off on this step on purpose. I was terrified of the book becoming a business guide. Motivational fluff. Something you'd find in an airport with a sans-serif font and a tagline about unlocking your potential. That's not this. That's never been this. Me fitting a mold has never been a thing…ever.

This is narrative nonfiction. My life. My actual story. The parts that were ugly and confusing and funny and sometimes all three at once.

For a living — I make medical brands findable. Compelling. Less basic bitch boring. I know how to take something real and position it so the right people actually see it. I've just been too scattered to do that for myself. Mommas I know you feel this missing brain component.

The final pass is the version where I stop writing for me and start writing for you. Not changing the voice. Not adding bullet points about takeaways. Just shifting the frame slightly so that when you read it, you don't just see my story — you see yours.

My hair is done. The book is almost done. Neither one is perfect yet, but both of them are finally starting to look like way the f*ck better.

Getting there counts.