Say the Thing, Pass the Shortbread

What Happens When You Let People Help You (and Actually Like It)

“I’m writing a book.” Four words. Infinite ways to spiral.

I love talking about my work. That’s not the problem. But saying I’m writing a book? That hits different because when you say that, you’re also saying:

I think I’m important enough to write one. I believe I have something worth saying. And… I might need your help.

And that’s where our story begins.

I’m writing a book! Gulp.

And if that sentence made your palms sweat just reading it? Same.

On rejection, risk, and precisely 1/2 a gold star

I’ve been doing the exact thing I tell everyone else not to do.

I’ve been sending out query letters like secret valentines, hopeful and…ghosted. No candy hearts, no love notes, just the soundless vacuum where pitches go to die. Or worse, rejections are born.

For those keeping score, I’m currently 0 for 60ish.
Well, almost. Two agents did ask for the full proposal… before they politely passed. So… half a gold star?

It’s fine.
It’s also not fine.

It makes me want to crawl under a cashmere blanket and disappear the second I type the words: I’m writing a book because it’s not just a sentence, it’s a statement, one that comes with risk and with vulnerability (ugh). Not to mention it sounds either like a delusion or a brag, there’s no culturally sanctioned middle ground. You’re either Elizabeth Gilbert on sabbatical or someone workshopping their trauma in a Notes app.

Say the thing before you are the thing.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done very vulnerable things but they are usually on my terms, like my foray into self portraits and sending my pics to Photo Vogue, more on that here.

But that? That was vulnerability I chose, I signed up for it, I hit submit and I knew what I was offering. It was personal, but contained, irrevocably mine.

This book thing, isn’t that.

Declaring you’re writing a book before there’s a deal? A cover? A “yes”?
That’s a different kind of exposure, one that asks you to be visible without control.

To say the thing not just when you’ve edited the photo, but when you’re still mid-draft.
Mid-process, mid-uncertainty, that’s the new edge I’m standing on.
Not just being seen, but being received.

It’s not a chill sentence: I’m writing a book.

It lands like a confession and declaration. It’s definitely a litmus test for how much you’re allowed to want something before people start shifting in their seats. Books aren’t “just a project.” They’re permanence, a legacy object in a world that’s still more comfortable watching women have stories than tell them.

And let’s be honest we’ve been trained, deeply and generationally trained, to aim for approachable, not ambitious. To make things that are cute, clever, consumable… not canon.

So yeah, it feels a little weird to say out loud that you’re making something meant to last. Especially before the shiny cover reveal. Before the agent, the deal, the press release. Just you, a Google Doc, and your gall.

No proof. Just guts.

Which is why I’ve been hiding behind a soft blanket of half-truths. Saying “I’m working on something” instead of “I’m writing a damn good book.”

But not today. Today, I’ve got both hands on the mic, and I’m saying it plainly:

I’m writing a book.

If you’ve been through this process, tell me everything.
If you know someone who should know about me, hit forward.
And if you’ve got a story of your own, I’m all ears.

Let’s make legacy the new casual.
(And yes, I’ll bring the lemon shortbread to the book launch.)

But Wait, There’s More. The Story That’s About to Make a Lot of People Uncomfortable

And of them deserves it.

Yesterday, I hit send on a story I’ve been orbiting for years, not because I was afraid to write it, but because I knew exactly what it would mean when I finally did.

So I wrote it down.
All of it.
And it’s coming out soon with Jane Pratt.
Yes, that Jane. We are in our “It Happened to Me” era now.

This is the real story about a man who targeted my mother, lied, schemed, and underestimated what happens when women stop second-guessing and start naming names.

And in case you’re wondering: no, I don’t feel bad writing it.
I feel hydrated. And oddly accomplished.

I used to think I could’ve stopped it if I’d been louder, earlier, better at confrontation, whatever. I’ve made peace with that part.

And to him, in case this somehow finds you:
I’m legally allowed to name you.
I just haven’t decided what sentence you look best in.

Meanwhile me and 240 of my Substack besties?
We’re watching you now

.

Cue the Picnic Scene

Think: if Sofia Coppola directed a post-reckoning picnic in late June.

We brought the good bubbles for a toast. The iced mint tea was made from scratch, obviously. Shortbread cookies so lemony they made your jaw twitch. Bees doing their job. Us doing ours.

We sketched. We cackled. We told the stories our mothers never got to tell out loud. We packed it all pillows, linen everything. We didn’t save the good stuff, we went all in on comfort and delight. So if you’ve been toting cold pizza and the beach towel you’ve had since college to your picnics, this is your sign to…

Pull out your grandma’s good china and the other grandma’s heirloom quilt.
Bring the good champagne (you know the one).
Bake the cookies that require zest and a little patience.
Throw in a deck of tarot cards, the watercolor set you keep saying you’ll use “someday,” and a few books you’re not trying to impress anyone with

The vibe should be somewhere between The Virgin Suicides and Big Little Lies but in our version, no one dies and everyone gets seconds.

I made a moodboard. Because of course I did.
I wore the good sunglasses. You know the ones.

This Is The Part Where We Want More

More moments like this.
More women who don’t wait to be believed before they speak.
More art made out of aftermath.
More cookies. Always more cookies.

Letting people help isn’t weakness.
It’s the bravest, warmest thing we can do. So if you’re still hoping someone will read between your carefully written lines, maybe just say it.
Let the story out. Let your people in.
And if you need a meadow, I’ll bring the playlist.

Because silence never saved us.
But a perfectly timed picnic might.

Speaking of Brave Things… Want to Come Over?

Portland. July. Real wine. Real connection.

This part’s for my Oregon Substack besties.

I’ve got a wine shop owner friend who wants to host us. I’ve got a shady picnic spot. I’ve got a snack rec that slaps and I’ve got a growing list of beautiful brains who’ve already said yes to meeting up in Portland, OR (I see you Maine friends) for a summer evening at the end of July (exact date TBD once we see how many want in).

If this post hits? You’re probably meant to be there.
Shy? Same. You’re in good company.

Come meet the people behind the profiles. Come say the thing you’ve been dancing around in your drafts. Come linger long enough to feel seen.

Pass the Shortbread

Crisp, buttery, and just tart enough to keep you honest. Pair with a glass of something cold and a friend who asks, “Okay, but what do you really want?”

Makes 36–38 cookies, 2.5 inches wide

Cookies:

• ⅔ cup granulated sugar

• 2 Tbsp fresh lemon zest

• 1 cup unsalted butter, room temp

• 1 Tbsp fresh lemon juice

• ½ tsp vanilla

• 2 cups all-purpose flour

• ⅓ cup cornstarch

• ⅛ tsp salt

1. Pulse sugar + lemon zest in a food processor until finely chopped.
2. In a large bowl, beat lemon sugar + butter until creamy. Add lemon juice + vanilla.
3. Add flour, cornstarch, and salt. Beat on low speed until dough is soft and sticky.
4. On a floured surface, roll dough to ¼ inch thick. Dust with flour, transfer to baking sheet, and chill at least 3 hours (or up to 2 days).
5. Preheat oven to 350°F. Cut dough with a 2.5-inch cutter. Work quickly.
6. Bake 14–15 minutes, until edges are set and just starting to turn golden.

Icing:

• 1 cup confectioners’ sugar

• 1 Tbsp fresh lemon juice

• 1 Tbsp milk or cream

• ¼ tsp vanilla

Whisk together and dip cooled cookies.

If you loved this post, feel free to forward it or share it with someone who needs to remember their voice matters too. I Would Never Gatekeep This From You is a reader-supported space. Come closer. 💋