The Stories We Keep to Ourselves

The Stories We Keep to Ourselves

Reading and writing have always been my go-to places.

Reading came first, of course.

I grew up on a farm in rural Alberta, where there were always chores to be done and work that couldn’t simply be put off until tomorrow. I was also busy with school, sports, siblings, neighbours and all the things that filled childhood days.

Whenever I wanted space, though, I headed outside.

Nature was my first escape. I loved the freedom of being outdoors, wandering, exploring and having room to think. But growing up in Alberta meant the weather didn’t always cooperate. On those days, books became my next favourite place to disappear.

Reading let me retreat into my own world. Or, more accurately, someone else’s. I could leave the farm without actually going anywhere. I could visit places I’d never seen, meet people completely different from anyone I knew and go on adventures I’d probably never attempt in real life.

I loved that. And somewhere along the way, reading led me to something else.

Writing.

Discovering That I Could Create the Story

I think I was about nine when I first experimented with writing my own stories. I wasn’t thinking about becoming an author. I certainly wasn’t thinking about publishing. I just discovered that creating a story could be every bit as much fun as reading one.

Suddenly, I wasn’t limited to following someone else’s adventure. I could decide where the characters went. I could create the problem. I could rescue them from it… or make things considerably worse before I did.

There was something wonderfully freeing about that.

So I kept writing. But I didn’t tell people about it. For years. The stories were mine. Writing was something I did because I loved it, not something I thought I had any right to take seriously.

Looking back, that seems strange considering how much time I spent doing it. But wanting to write and believing you can actually be a writer are two very different things.

What If I’m Actually Good at This?

Eventually, curiosity got the better of me. I started sharing a few things I’d written with friends and family. They liked them. Which was wonderful… except they were friends and family.

Of course they were going to tell me they liked them. Or at least that’s what I told myself.

I wanted to know what someone who actually understood writing thought.

So I started taking courses. I learned about plotting, characters, dialogue, pacing and all the pieces that turn an idea into a story. I joined writing groups and began paying more attention to the books I read—not simply enjoying the story, but looking at how the author had created it.

Eventually, I also got professional feedback on my writing. That was different. The feedback wasn’t simply, “This is good.” It showed me what I was doing well, where my strengths were and, equally importantly, where I needed to improve.

And yes, the message was clear. I should pursue writing. There was only one problem.

I still didn’t quite believe it.

Sometimes We Are Our Own Biggest Obstacle

I hadn’t grown up thinking that becoming an author was something I could do. No one had encouraged me toward writing as a career. It wasn’t a path I’d ever really considered.

So even after receiving positive feedback, I kept doing what I’d always done… I wrote.

And I hid most of it.

I’d share a little more here and there, but there was always that voice asking: Who am I to think I can do this?

I suspect a lot of people have something like that in their lives. Something they love. Something they’re actually quite good at. Something they keep telling themselves they’ll pursue someday.

When there’s more time.

When they’re more confident.

When life settles down.

The trouble is, life rarely sends us an invitation announcing that now is the perfect time. Sometimes it takes something else entirely to make us understand that.

The Moment “Someday” Changed

Then I lost someone very dear to me. It hit me hard. Things that once seemed important suddenly aren’t. Things we’ve been postponing become harder to ignore. For me, one of those things was writing.

I realized I’d spent years creating stories and then hiding them away because I wasn’t sure they were good enough, or because I wasn’t confident enough, or because I thought perhaps I’d get around to doing something with them someday.

Suddenly, someday didn’t feel good enough. I was wasting time. That realization gave me the push I’d apparently needed. I started sharing my stories more openly.

First with my siblings. They loved them.

Then with relatives and friends. They loved them too.

Well… Almost all of them.

Not Everyone Is Going to Love What You Write

One person really didn’t like my stories. She hated thrillers. At first, that kind of feedback can be difficult to hear, particularly when you’re finally finding the courage to share something you’ve kept private for years.

But eventually I realized something important. She wasn’t my reader.

That didn’t mean I should ignore everything she said. There were comments I could use to improve my writing, and I paid attention to those. But I didn’t need to change the kinds of stories I loved because someone else didn’t enjoy that genre.

That distinction took me a while to learn. Feedback can make us better. Trying to please everyone can make us lose what made our work ours in the first place.

That lesson eventually became even more important when I was working on Captured Lies. I originally wrote it as a romance because I thought that was the direction I was supposed to take. Years later, I finally tore it apart and rebuilt it as the suspense thriller novel I’d wanted to write all along.

That was another turning point: realizing I needed to write the stories that fascinated me.

From Hidden Stories to Twenty-Two Books

And somehow, all those stories I once kept hidden became books. Twenty-two of them.

I still find that number a little shocking. The nine-year-old who quietly experimented with writing stories certainly didn’t imagine this. Neither did the woman who took writing courses but wasn’t quite convinced she had what it took. Or the writer who cautiously handed a story to someone else and waited to hear what they thought.

There have been a lot of steps between that first story and where I am today. Some exciting. Some terrifying. Some frustrating enough that I wondered why on earth I’d chosen this path.

But I’m grateful I did.

And there are more stories to come.

What Are You Keeping to Yourself?

When I look back now, I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t received that wake-up call.

Would I eventually have published?

Probably.

Maybe.

I honestly don’t know.

What I do know is that I spent far too long waiting for enough confidence to arrive before I took myself seriously. I’ve since learned that confidence doesn’t always come first. Sometimes you have to take the step while you’re still unsure.

Then another.

And another.

Eventually, you look back and realize how far you’ve travelled.

Writing began as another place for me to escape, much like reading had been throughout my childhood. It became something more.

A challenge.

A career.

A way to explore all those questions about people, families, secrets, trust and choices that have always fascinated me. And, perhaps most importantly, a way to share the stories I spent so many years keeping to myself.

So I’ll leave you with a question.

Is there something you’ve always wanted to do but keep putting off until “someday”?

Maybe someday doesn’t have to be quite so far away.

If you enjoyed this article you might enjoy these:

The Moment I Chose Suspense Over Expectations – Click here

My Journey with Writing to Publishing – Click here.