Press Send

On the trembling journey of a first book.

It's 6.45 am and I've been up for an hour. I put on my bikini and a robe and walk across the road to the private dock while letting the morning air seep through my skin. It’s two weeks to my manuscript deadline. I'm on a solo writing retreat to finish my first book, renting a room in a large wooden villa from the turn of the last century. Bikers pass on the road behind me, they on their way to work, I on my way to a book. I thread my hands through the holes of the wooden gate to open the padlock on the inside. I need to lean my forehead against the boards to see to turn the numbers. Once I get them right, I open the gate and watch the lake splay open before me like a watercolour painting. Her surface smooth like a ballroom floor, with a hint of mist dancing upon her. It's 7 °C in the air, but still 17 °C in the water. The lake welcomes me as I walk down the ladder, holds my body in her vastness. As I swim out, I see my own dock on the other side. I see the same bridge, the same buildings and the same morning light. It’s the same painting, only from new angles, with new brush strokes, new realities.

On my first writing retreat six months ago I came half-way through the chapters of my book, Listen to the wool. On this one I’m finishing it. The book has been in my heart for years, but often been neglected because I used time, work, family and a thousand other things as reasons not to turn a dream from unicorn magic into harsh reality. But the moment came when I decided to reach for it, to get out of my head and into my hands. The second I pressed Purchase for an online book proposal masterclass I knew I had to pursue this adventure, write the proposal, get an agent, land a book deal. And I did.

After having thanked the lake, I get changed, mount my bike and treadle downtown. I have ridden this bike through this city so many times, but on my way to work and always the same route. This time I go slowly, along new streets, noticing the buildings, the people I pass, the stillness of the canal and the brand-new autumn. I make up stories about the bikers I meet, what they work with, what’s on their minds as they whizz silently past me. I wonder what stories they make up about me, if they even see me through their commuter goggles. I stop at a café that serves breakfast and giggle at my small-scale adventure. The spoon clatters against the porridge bowl to the tunes of The Dock of the Bay. On the other side of the shopwindow the city is waking up. Parents with prams, morning joggers and pedestrians pass, new breakfast customers come in. Some read, some chat, quietly. I write.

Every finished chapter of the book is a new chapter of my writing life, a new partner to get to know and find the superpowers of, a new part of me as a writer to explore. Only six months ago I would never have thought of writing in a journal at a breakfast café. I know now I can write about anything that wants to be written, especially in journals at breakfast cafés. I know that I can write wildly, that dancing can bring out some of the most scrumptious ideas and choreograph the text in ways I didn't know I love. I know now that I have the capacity to structure a book from scattered ponderings and craft them onto the page.

I know that no word is written in vain, that some words need to be written, peeled off the writing onion, for others to emerge, flourish, ripen and sing.

I have adapted and sharpened my administration to what I have and what I need. Checklists, filing systems, a writing log. I have created a writing practice and put together a box of tools that I’m learning how to use. I have administered photo shoots for 130+ outdoor images. I feel lucky to be married to my photographer. The fun we have had together! Creating the settings, bringing out curtains to tone down the bright sunlight, pinning wool to log cabin walls and shielding it from the wind with couch cushions, crawling into a foldable photo studio with no trace of dignity. Laughed, learned, loved.

As I roll back through the streets with a full belly, the morning magic is about to fizzle out. I enjoy the last breaths of it as I chain my bike to the rack outside my lodgings. I organize an outdoor office in the September sun—I place a garden chair on top of a matching table and my computer on the chair, for my pop-up outdoor standing desk. I read the book aloud, out into the world, to the bikers, dog walkers and strollers floating by on the path below me. To the September sun, sprinkling new freckles on my face.

The words are still mine to shape, craft and assemble into my book. Reading them aloud is my finest grain sandpaper before I hand the script to my editor. This is my last chance to be with the book when I am still in charge, to let it go gently. Time to spend with it in the making before it becomes something made. I have read it so many times now. The words float between my fingers and dissolve into dust before me. I can’t see them anymore; I need someone with fresh eyes and a new perspective to take the lead. Yet, I don’t want to let go. When I read a novel, I linger through the last few pages, for fear of losing the magic, the people and places I have come to know so intimately. What if they do something behind closed covers? What if they make up a new story? I have developed a novel fomo. The book I write is full of sheep. They could do all sorts of mischief if I'm not there, couldn’t they?

I have no idea what happens once I send the script to my editor. And perhaps it is a good thing. It's my first book, it's only fair that I'm blissfully unaware of what comes next, isn't it? I have no idea what happens to my daily writing space once my baby has moved out. I have other writing projects, rest assured, but the spirit of my book is still there, hovering behind the curtains, peeking at the audience, wondering what will arise when the curtains are drawn.

After three days of reading my book aloud —it took me eleven hours—my writing retreat has come to an end. I pack my bags and mount my bike again to take the 15-minute ride across the bridge and back home to my world. I wonder if my co-bikers notice the rainbow sparkles shooting out from the finished manuscript in my backpack. I wonder what will happen to it once it reaches my editor, what changes she will want me to make. I wonder what the finished book will feel like to hold—the weight of it, the structure of the paper, its thickness, the smell of it. I wonder what Dan's photos and my words will look like in print. Which of the four cover photo options will be used, how the jacket will be designed. I wonder if the love in the book will show, how the readers will keep it alive.

The second I park my bike in my own rack, the 400+ logged writing hours knock me on my head like a sack of flour. Fatigued in body and mind, voice sore. Every step of the book to this moment crystallizes before me, gushes through my mind with a brutal force.

In the evening, I gather the files for my editor, all the 89,197 words on 321 pages—double spacing—and the 134 photos, and attach them to the email I prepared weeks ago. I just add a P.S.: "Close gently; mind the sheep".

I hold Dan's hand, I hold his gaze as I press Send.

…

Now what?

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Listen to the wool—a why-to guide for joyful spinning will be published in the second half of 2025.