This is Not The Story of Writing a Book

It’s the story of seeing one through to fullness, wholeness, and publishing.

For years, people have said to me, You should write a book...

And every time, I’d smile, because I had thought about it long before anyone else said it out loud.

So I tried.Six times.

Each attempt began with passion and possibility, and each one ended midstream.

I didn’t know then what I know now. Writing and publishing a book can be a tumultuous journey. Many never cross the finish line. I was one of them.

One night, I had a dream.

In the dream, I saw six incomplete manuscripts, abandoned and unfinished. It was so vivid and unsettling that I wrote about it. That dream became a turning point and eventually part of my book that is now close to being published. Most importantly, it led me to release those unfinished books, along with the guilt, disappointment in myself, and the lost dreams that had accompanied them.

The fun part is the writing. I love the fine tuning and the feeling of being in sync with creativity. Living in this zone is seductive.

The hard part is everything that comes afterward. Editors, proofreading, rewriting, more proofreading, production, and finally promotion.

Production makes me want to run away and forfeit the dream. Promotion feels like swimming in hot, bubbling waters of anxiety. Challenges, setbacks, and doubt come and beg to stay. It became clear that I could not muscle through every dip on my own.

It takes a village.

And if you don’t have one, as I didn’t for a long time, my advice is this. Do the writing anyway. Every word matters. Every attempt teaches you something. The finished result may look nothing like what you imagined, but the version that wants to be born will find its way through if you stay the course and ask for help, even if it takes six failed attempts to make it happen.

Writing a book may look like a solitary journey, but it isn’t. Learning to receive support has been one of my greatest stretches. Birthing my first book has required me to accept help in ways I once resisted.

I’m now in year two of a creative relationship with my current book. I keep returning to one simple practice. Trust the process. Thankfully, intuitive painting sealed this truth into my bones.

And not surprisingly, as I’ve stayed visible in this process, I’ve begun attracting others with messages to share and books to write. Supporting them feels like a natural evolution of my own journey.

When I look at the hatred and violence in the world, part of me still wants to disappear. But I did that for too long, and it does not serve. When you bury a seed, growth is inevitable. Growth becomes blooms. Blooms become nourishment.

I see myself now a seed that is no longer hidden.

The mission to write a book has grown beyond me. It has become multilayered. It now asks a new question. How can I help nurture the seeds of books in others?

As I write this, the sun breaks through days of gray. It feels like a quiet affirmation. Shine on. Let your light warm others into motion. Whatever your calling, if it enhances goodness and light, the world needs it.

Do not hide.Do not turn away.Do not doubt that what you do matters.

Ask for help. Find your people. Rise, because when one ship rises, all ships rise.

The storms will come, but the clouds part. The path continues as you keep finding your way.

There is comfort in knowing I am doing my part, creating ripples wider and deeper than I may ever know.

So who am I becoming through this book writing journey?

A woman who no longer disappears to feel safe.A woman who reaches out her hand and says, How can I support your deepest desires, your loudest calling, your biggest dream?

I know you can do it because I showed myself that even the most unlikely person can achieve her biggest dream.

That person is me.

Now I hold this inner knowing for you and for me, not only for myself.

And together, we shine like the sun and soar with the eagles.

I am certain this has been the grand master plan all along.

© 2026 Beverly Keaton. All rights reserved.

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