When I Grow Up...

There’s something so fragile about your first book. Okay, maybe I can’t speak for everyone, but for me? My ego could’ve been shattered by a glance in the first few months after publishing. Shit, I’m still coming down from the high of, “Holy fucking shit-balls, Batman. I published a book.”

But not only did I publish a book—I published this book. One with smutty scenes that I know will spark clapback. One that might get me cornered by weirdos asking about my sex life (because apparently writing a sex scene gives people permission to treat you like a walking diary). And honestly? It’s controversial. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Which meant my fragile ego had to buck up or shut up—fast.

People are cruel. I know that firsthand. I grew up in a cruel home and was still somehow blindsided by the cruelty of the world outside it. The audacity of some people: to offer opinions soaked in self-righteousness, as if their shit doesn’t stink. (It does stink actually.) And to those people, I say: I’d love to see you write 150,000 words and not give someone something to whine about.

I wish I could say comments don’t get to me. But I’ve always believed that criticism—whether constructive or not—can make us better if we let it. Not everyone will like my work, especially with the dark, sexual nature of it. And to be honest, that’s not changing. That darkness is part of me. It’s not bitterness, and it’s not cold. I’ve faced my shit. But just like falling off a bike or crashing a car, the scars stick with you. They’re mine. They’re staying.

Still… some readers are so kind, so unexpectedly warm, that their words have made me cry. Not the slow single-tear-down-the-cheek type of cry. I mean the hand-over-mouth, heart-pounding, can’t-even-respond kind of cry. It’s the best feeling in the world.

The first message that hit like that? It stunned me. The book hadn’t even released yet, and my nerves were more frayed than Raeban’s sanity at the end of book one. The reader was a beta (though I had no clue what that meant at the time, I just needed someone to tell me whether I’d wasted months of my life or not). I can’t even remember what the message said, exactly. I didn’t save it, wasn’t in the headspace to realize I’d want to. But I remember nearly collapsing in relief. Okay, I thought. I can do this. If one person likes it, maybe someone else will too.

After that, I got more comments. Lots of them. “It’s soooo good, I can’t put it down!” “I’m dying to know what happens next!” “Girl, how did you come up with all this? It’s amazing. Don’t stop.” And they were wonderful. They kept me going. But they weren’t the thing I needed.

Because quietly, underneath the excitement, I kept wondering: Am I wasting my time? I’ve been told my whole life that I’d never amount to anything. And now here I am, daring to believe I could be… something. I needed validation. Not the “your husband thinks it’s great” kind. I needed something real.

And then it came.

“Laura. I have NEVER spent my day looking forward to coming home and reading. 110 pages waited for a kiss!! I am so invested. Congratulations on being so creative. I am so lucky I get to know your talented brain!!”

Seems simple, right? It’s not dripping with emotion. It’s not some poetic ode. But it wrecked me.

Because here’s the thing: that message came from someone who doesn’t like reading. Like, at all. Her attention span fights her every step of the way. But she’s a gem of a human, and she dove in—for me. And somewhere along the way, she wanted to keep going. She wanted to open the book. Escape into the world I built. And that undid me.

Getting a non-reader to read—and not just that, but to enjoy it? That’s a miracle. I know it is. Hell, I raised two kids who want nothing to do with books, despite my undying love for them. I couldn’t get my own kids to catch the reading bug. But her? I did.

That moment shifted something in me. It showed me what I want to do with the rest of my life. I want to get people reading. I want to open the door for people who’ve never been drawn in by a story before. Writing saved me in ways I didn’t even know I needed saving. It gave me a purpose. Confidence. And now? A mission.

So I’m celebrating. Because at 35 years old, I finally figured out what I want to be…

when I grow up.