Becoming a published author taught me a lot. It’s hard to believe my first book was officially released six months ago. Self-publishing it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, and the lessons I drew from it weren’t what I expected.

Setting expectations low (realistically) is totally fine and highly recommended.

I tackled this process like the project it was: a dream, a goal, a calling I’d had for nearly three and a half decades. I pictured the book release as both a finish line and a quiet celebration.

My husband was having a major surgery weeks before, so I opted not to have an official book release or launch party. Looking back, I’m glad I made that choice. It didn’t make the book any less important, and I wasn’t disappointed.

People get excited to read your book; they don’t always actually read your book.

My team leader at the time was psyched to read my book. It seemed like years’ worth of our weekly one-on-one meetings were filled with status updates, the current roadblock I was experiencing, or the section I was working on. (His wife is an author, too, so he could relate to many of my woes secondhand.)

After the book was published, one of our one-on-ones ended with him dramatically pushing the Buy Now button on Amazon. I saw imaginary confetti.

Two days later, he texted me a picture of him holding the book.

A month later, he reported that one of his daughters had spilled a drink on it, drenching most of the book. He expressed his frustration with this event.

And that was the end of it.

One of the best parts has been hearing feedback and stories from readers.

A dear friend whom I thought I knew fairly well emailed me after finishing the book. She shared how much it meant to her. She’d read it in a sitting or two and could strongly relate to my childhood. As she shared details about her parents, I saw myself in her story.

Then I was right back to that little eight-year-old girl from the introduction of my book.

My favorite part was reading my book aloud to my husband and daughter Gabby.

My husband asked that we take our time with it, reading a chapter or so a night so it would last about a week. (We might skip some nights due to general busyness, and that was ok.) There are 121 pages with a dozen chapters, so it wouldn’t take long anyway. Might as well space it out!

Each evening, we cuddled up on the bed in our master bedroom, and I’d begin reading. Some of the words got caught in my throat. Others couldn’t escape without my pushing through tears of laughter. We all cried and giggled together. It was our journey, our story.

We finished the book in three evenings, well ahead of my husband’s plan. Each time a chapter ended and I paused, they would gawk at me like I’d done something wrong. “Is that the end?” they’d ask. I’d chuckle, knowing my cliffhanger strategy had worked. Then we’d keep reading.

Six months in, the biggest lesson isn’t about publishing at all. It’s about sharing stories with the people who mean the most to me.

Check out The Gabby Effect

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Stories by Jess

Is That the End?