“What are you working on?” My ten-year-old son asked from across the table at the barber shop where we waited while my youngest son got his hair cut.

“Oh. This?” I looked down at my purple ink scrawled across a journal page. “It’s just my ‘About the Author’ for a book signing I have coming up. I need something to put on the sign since people might not know much about me or my book.”

“Can I help?” Being the opportunist homeschool mom that I am, I never pass on willful writing practice. I explained the objective, tore a page from my journal, and slid it across the table along with an orange felt tipped pen from my purse. I tore out a second page for my twelve-year-old who was bored out of his mind, just to give him something to do. Ever the comedian, my oldest son finished in a hurry with something along the lines of, “Alysson is a human who lives in America. She is fond of the beverage known as sweet tea. She is married to a fellow human.” I had a good laugh and tucked the note away while my ten-year-old continued with his amateur hand and careful words.

After his brother’s humorous take on the impromptu project, I was expecting something similar from my ten-year-old. With a half-smirk, I began reading.

“Alysson is a small author, but big in my eyes.“

“Alysson is a small author, but big in my eyes. Whenever she got a box full of her books, I was disappointed when I saw they were put in there sloppily, but she was kind and gave me one of the not ripped ones. Whenever she gave me mine, I was all over her trying to get here to sign it. It took her thirteen years to write. I would give it a five-star rating if I could. I hope you enjoy this magical, yet breathtaking, heartwarming book called Winter.”

Dear reader, I am proud to tell you that I somehow managed to contain my tears and refrain from bawling my eyes out like a lunatic.

I love my readers and truly appreciate every kind thing that’s ever been said about me or my writing, but nothing, and I do mean nothing, will compare to the pride that swelled in my chest at those precious words. No glowing review. No number on my KDP dashboard. No follower count. Nothing.

This is especially precious to me because without him, I probably never would’ve finished writing my first novel, let alone a second. He wasn’t entirely correct when he said it took me thirteen years to “wright.” I hadn’t been writing the entire time. In fact, the first time I read it to him, I hadn’t written anything at all in a very, very long time.

Three years ago, I was cleaning up some files and transferring the ones I deemed worthy of saving to a folder in my Google Drive. A few weeks later, we found ourselves in the midst of a severe weather warning, something I always took probably too lightly before having kids. My husband was working a night shift, so the boys and I were riding out the storm at my parent’s house. When the power went out, my oldest and my youngest were fast asleep, but I was awake with my middle son. We didn’t have our books, electricity, or internet. What I did have was a terrified little boy who couldn’t sleep, a phone with service & a full battery, and a Google Drive with an old story I’d given up on ten years earlier.

“So it went, as all great stories do, Once upon a time…”

It started as a way to calm his nerves, but by the time I finished reading, he was even more awake than before I started reading and he just had to know how the story ended. Honestly, so did I. I didn’t have an answer, but I happened to be very close to the author, something he didn’t find out until I’d exhausted every single piece of the story I’d written over the years.

The story laid dormant for so long, I’d nearly forgotten it, until that wide-eyed little boy awakened within me a reason to finish it. Almost every night over the following year, I worked long into the nights after my boys fell asleep, writing the next part. The next night at bedtime, I’d read them what I’d written the night before. Sometimes they loved it. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes I’d take suggestions. Sometimes I wouldn’t. (Sorry about the mud monster, guys.) On and on it went until one day, we had a story.

Was it perfect? Far from it. I think if any author’s first novel is their best, they’re doing something dreadfully wrong. Writing, like any other craft, should be studied, practiced, and improved, something I strive for with each book I write. My greatest regret is that I was not the author that my first book deserved. Still, at the time of publishing, it was perfectly tailored to its target audience because I’d written it with them.

The fun thing about being an indie author is that I can do whatever I want with my books any time that I want. A year ago, I published a second edition of Winter complete with a map, cleaned up sentence structure, better pacing, a few additional scenes for character development, and a bonus epilogue.

September is my middle son’s birthday month, and he’s been asking for his own hardcover copy of our story. As of last week, the very special addition of my son’s precious letter officially became a part of both the eBook and print versions of Winter: A Tale of Cursed and Stolen Things. It’s for all my readers, but mostly it’s for the original intended audience of this book.

Every time I read this letter, I’m humbled by his childlike admiration. Throughout the years, I have been many things, but nothing has been as great an honor as being a mother. That’s probably something all the moms say, but anything true is worth repeating, no matter how many times it’s been said before. Still, I often I fall short. Besides “Well. Another day has come to an end and that basket of socks is still unmated,” or “Crap. Did I leave a hot dog in the air fryer?” my bedtime thoughts revolve around all the things I could’ve done better throughout the day. All the ways I could’ve loved and served my children better. In spite of these perceived failures, he believes in me. While this feels wholly undeserved, it also reminds me that my children are watching how I tend to and nurture my dreams. If I tuck them away under the premise that they’re “too big,” and let my light dim, I’ll teach them to do the same.

I hope they know that however loud they cheer for me, I’m cheering louder for them. As much as they believe in me, I believe more in them. I hope that any good in me is amplified in them. I hope when we open a box of new books with my name on the cover, they remember Marvin Whitaker and that sometimes, big dreams are still too small, and the truth is always worth fighting for.