When I graduated high school, I thought I had a plan. When that plan didn't work out, I retreated to an island.

That sounds like a metaphor, but isn't. I spun a globe, pointed, and transplanted my life to the other side of the world. If I had run any further from my failures, I'd have started moving closer again.

I enjoyed my time away. I needed it. This decision came with sacrifices, but it helped me reset. I cleaned the messy slate of my life and came back seven months later with a new purpose. I've followed this new trajectory with my day job, and I'm a happier person because of it.

In my other career-- as a writer-- I've also felt the allure of the island. There's an undeniable appeal to sequestering yourself to the worlds you create or only sharing them with people you'll never meet. There's less judgment that way, and it's easier to take rejection less personally.

This past weekend, I attended my first writers' conference and realized how wrong that mentality is. No writer, regardless of how good they are, is an island. They need editors, beta readers, agents, publishers, a fan base, etc. The process is a deeply personal one. We remove bits of ourselves and hold them up for the world to judge. At some point, though, if you're willing to elevate your creations, it becomes more than a singular endeavor.

Rising tides raise all ships, and there's an inherent danger to sleeping on the beach.

That's why, moving forward, I'm going to share the work of the talented people I meet on this journey of mine. There are many of them, and they no doubt feel the same reservations I struggle with.

The island can be a good thing, but we need to eventually brave what lies beyond it.