We're Gonna Publish Like It's 1987
“I am just a girl standing in front of a wildly small email subscriber list, asking them to love me until we reach the finish line”
I had a minor spiral today.
I opened my word count — 51,869 words, 121 pages — and instead of feeling like a person who has been writing a book since November while also parenting, running a business, and actively choosing not to commit crimes, I felt like it wasn’t enough.
It is enough. Mathematically, with four chapters left, I’m landing right in the middle of the standard range for narrative nonfiction. (For context — 51,869 words converts to roughly 189 published pages. By the time this thing is done, we’re looking at 220–240. That’s a real book. I needed someone to tell me that today.)
But my brain didn’t lead with math. My brain led with what if nobody wants this, what if my audience thinks I’m never actually going to do this, and what if I’m a one-hit wonder before I’ve even had the one hit.
Real talk.
Finishing the manuscript is not the finish line. It’s the starting gun. After that comes the book proposal, the agent query process (3–6 months, minimum), revisions your agent will ask for before they even pitch, then publishers, then their editorial process, then production, then a publication date that is realistically 12–18 months after a deal is signed.
I guess that 2–3 years from start to finish is “normal.” I don’t know in what universe that flies, but mkay. I suppose the publishing industry missed the memo that people have the attention spans of a gnat in 2026.
No pressure to keep following my sh*tshow, but please don’t give up. I am just a girl standing in front of a wildly small email subscriber list, asking them to love me until we reach completion. And I am persistent AF so there has to be a way to speed this process up.
So no, I am not almost done. And also yes, I am almost done. Both are true, and I’m learning to hold them at the same time.
What I do know: I have 51,869 words that didn’t exist in November. I wrote them while raising a kid, running a business, and last weekend loading a car for Seattle with two teenagers, a metric f*ck ton of clothes we didn’t wear, and enough collective teenage attitude that if I could bottle it I’d never need a business plan again. Josey’s last club tournament of the season. Memories check, credit card statement pending.
And now — Sunday — Jacob and I are getting on a plane to O‘ahu. I have never been to Hawaii.
I have been up since 4:30am today because my brain is already trying to earn the relaxation that hasn’t started yet. I have a checklist. I have checked it a bajillion times. I will probably check it again after I post this.
Here’s my version of unplugging: I’m recording a podcast episode from the beach with a venture capitalist named Mike. The pod is called Between Exits — it’s old bearded bro meets tatt’d broad business owner, and it sounds like Tony Robbins had a stroke and we made a love baby of word vomit. In the best way possible. I really sold that, right? Talking business on the beach doesn’t feel like work. It feels like the life.
The rest of it I’m calling a honeymoon. We got married at a family lake cabin — wedding two for us both, low key wins — and somehow eight years have passed since we met, and we still haven’t done the real thing. This is it. Spicy marg, preferably delivered by a cabana boy (sorry, honey), vitamin D, and coming home tan and a little bit new.
We’re gonna publish like it’s 1987, b*tches. Just with better pants.
MANUSCRIPT STATS
📝 51,869 words, and honestly, she’s looking good
✅ 16 of 19 chapters edited — 3 to go
📖 Then: full read-through, start to finish, like a real human
🔍 Then: agent research begins, and I learn a whole new kind of patience
