Like many other writers, I had a really hard time calling myself a writer. I was someone who “wrote sometimes”, but not a writer. In my experience, artists tend to be cripplingly fickle like that. I have always wanted to publish my work while simultaneously never wanting anyone to read my work. Through happenstance, I rediscovered my passion for storytelling years ago with the forceful nudging of my closest friend. Since then the idea of releasing a collection for public consumption has been this lovely swirly daydream that I would occasionally take out and pet for comfort and validation. Circumstances and schedules made it easy to perpetually postpone all necessary action to take this from my google docs into any version of reality. Then as the universe often does to me, I got exactly what I wanted in exactly the way I didn’t want it. Little by slowly, one heartbreak at a time I found myself here, months away from publishing my first (still feels questionable to say that) book. I’m shivering with anticipation and I can’t wait to see what’s next.
Imperfectly yours,
Siobhan Darling
