Last night, I was scrolling through X (you know, the platform formerly known as Twitter) when I came across a heated exchange between one of my favourite authors and some random guy about the upcoming US election. It quickly turned into a back-and-forth battle over British vs. US politics. I decided to throw a laughing face emoji on one of my fav author's witty comebacks. Big mistake. Huge.
This young anonymous guy immediately turned his attention to me and fired back with, "So how are those book sales going Gail?"
Five words. Just five little words. I put down my phone and burst into tears. Now, let me clear a few things up:
1. I usually avoid social media arguments like the plague. They're just awful.
2. I typically don't give trolls the time of day. Their comments are irrelevant noise.
3. I always thought the only online comment that could upset me would be about my weight.
But I was wrong about that last one. Turns out, mentioning my books is like hitting a raw nerve I didn't even know I had.
The thing is, I can't even comment on sales because I don't have any books available for purchase yet. But the timing of this comment, with the full moon looming and my first book set to release in just six weeks, it's all too much. The irony is almost comical, if it wasn't so painful.
Let me be crystal clear: I've faced some seriously terrifying things in my life. Opening my own business in 2014? Scary. Moving countries in 2020? Downright frightening. But nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, has been as terrifying as the path I've walked with my writing.
I've always wanted to write. Little me, nose buried in Enid Blyton and later the Sweet Valley High series. I would wander into bookshops, gaze at the bestseller section, and think, "That'll be me one day."
Growing up, I was taught that any form of art was just a hobby. If you said you wanted to be a writer, the immediate follow-up was always, "Okay, but what will you do to actually earn money?" This belief took root deep in my mind, and I left writing well alone. From 27 to 50, the only thing I wrote was a six-month blog in 2012.
The funny thing is, I supported every artist I knew. Post-divorce, I dated men with artistic talents. I'd read their poems, listen to their music, admire their art, and tell them never to give up. Looking back, I realise I was trying to fill the void in my own heart by supporting their dreams instead of my own. If you asked any of these men if Gail could write, they wouldn't have had a clue. I'd pushed my talent so deep inside, locked it away, and decided to never look at it again.
Until 2020, that is. I started writing my blog, and then an idea for a novel wouldn't leave me alone. Scenes would pop into my head, and I'd frantically jot them down in my Apple Notes app.
This year, I decided to go all in on my writing career. It's a risk that I can hear my late father questioning in my head: "How on earth do you plan to make money off of this?" Trust me, I ask myself this question every single day. But the urge to write is stronger than me – it is me. It's the core essence of who I am. When I write, nothing else matters. The fear, the bills, the what-ifs – they all fade away. I get lost in a world that feels so damn beautiful that I just cannot ignore it anymore.
So, back to that keyboard warrior and his jab about my book sales. It hit me hard, harder than I ever expected. Here I was, finally pursuing my lifelong dream of writing, and with five simple words, this stranger made me question everything.
It wasn't just about the books or the sales. It was about all those years I spent suppressing my creativity, all the times I told myself writing wasn't a "real" career. It was about the little girl who dreamed of seeing her name on book covers, and the adult who was terrified of failing.
I cried hard that night, not just because of what he said, but because of what it represented. All my fears, all my doubts, all my insecurities about my writing - they all came rushing to the surface. For a moment, I felt like that scared twenty-something again, being laughed at for daring to dream of being an author.
The fact that his words hurt so much only proves how much this means to me. Writing isn't just a hobby or a whim - it's a part of who I am. And I'm done letting fear or other people's opinions hold me back.
My first book, a self-help guide with an accompanying workbook, will launch at the end of August under Simpatico Publishing – the umbrella company I've set up for all my future books. September will see the release of my fiction book, "Whole of the Moon," under the pen name Jessi Morris (a tribute to my sister and dad). And because I'm apparently a glutton for punishment (or just bursting with creativity), I'll also be launching some spicy fiction under the name Sheryl Sabine – a nod to my second name and my mother's.
I'm aiming to write three books per year – two self-help and one fiction. It's ambitious, it's terrifying, and it's exactly what I need to be doing.
Tonight, under the full moon, I'm letting go of all my limiting beliefs about my talents and success. I'm opening myself up to the possibility that I am good enough, that people want to read my work, and that I have something valuable to offer the world through my words.
My books may not be on shelves yet, but they will be. And when they are, I hope they touch lives, make people laugh, or give them hope.
What I know through all of this is that I'm taking a chance on something that makes my heart sing. Maybe, just maybe, I can add some sparkle to the world through my words. And who knows? Perhaps all my dreams will come true. Because anything is possible if we just keep trying and believe in ourselves.
So here's to the full moon, to new beginnings, and to proving that keyboard warrior wrong. Watch this space – Gail's books are coming, and they're going to be fabulous.
Happy full moon, everyone!
Gail x
Let ‘em.. I quite sure it will be amazing. 🤩