After five years of rejections, I’m publishing my memoir

Do the thing. Write the book. Chase the dream. It’s worth it—no matter how it unfolds.

In the five years since I’ve finished my memoir, The One Who Leaves, I’ve gone through a pandemic, I’ve had a baby who is now a magic joy child, I’ve started therapy and have committed to my healing in a way that has changed my life, I’ve chosen my partner and this beautiful and sometimes brutal life we’re building every single day and let me tell you that is not always easy, and I’ve moved through tidal waves of grief from birth trauma, a hurricane hitting my little mountain town and destroying our community, my grandma’s ever worsening-dementia, watching Los Angeles—the place that shaped me and held me for so many years burn down, reckoning with my childhood trauma, and the near hundred rejections I received for my memoir.

I truly believed that one day my memoir would be published and had some close calls where I thought it was finally going to happen. I’m telling you I got so close that I put together a list of questions I was planning to ask the agent on the offer call along with pages of me running through how I would answer questions about my book. It’s all sort of funny now, looking back. I mean, it has to be or it would just be too sad to even talk about.

It’s hard for me because this is the only thing that I ever wanted and worked like hell to get that didn’t work out no matter how hard I tried. The lack of control was maddening. I’ve always been someone who could figure out how to get what I wanted because it always came down to working harder, better—to being more resourceful, more resilient. And I could do that. If there was anything my shitty childhood taught me—mom in and out of prison, meth lab in the garage of our goddamn house, Dad being strung out, being evicted, being poor, being me—it’s that I was resilient. I could take it, whatever it was. I would keep going. I would not quit. And that’s how I felt about the memoir. I figured if I just kept going, kept querying, kept going to workshops, kept meeting people, kept writing, kept publishing stories, something would fucking happen.

Well, it turns out, it did.

It just didn’t turn out how I thought it would. No, I never did get an agent, but I’ve become a better writer. A better memoirist. A better woman, mother, wife. Everything. I’ve broken cycles of trauma not only for myself but for my son. This pursuit has given me so much even if it wasn’t the thing I was after.

At the start of last year, I was still holding onto a few last strings of hope. My dream agent said she’d sent my book to some of her agent colleagues, so I thought maybe, just maybe it could happen. I’d also queried a few more agents on my own, the last few shots in the dark. But nothing came of it. I thought about rewriting the memoir as auto-fiction and came close, but every time I’d open up the document to edit and change, I found that what I really wanted to do was to start over.

So, that’s what I’m doing. I’m working on something new and yeah, sure, it has similar themes to my memoir in one way or another—addiction, love, broken people breaking things but loving them anyway, these are the stories I know how to tell—but the point is that it’s a new story. New characters. New dreams. New desires. New limiting beliefs. New disasters. And I’ve been having fun with writing again, which really, is what I really want out of this whole thing anyway.

To truly start over, and fully let the memoir go, I’m serializing it here on Substack. Beginning on March 6th I’m publishing a chapter a week with audio (sometimes more) for a year for my paid subscribers. The book spans 56 chapters, a short prologue, and 99,000 words—so settle in.

You can subscribe for $5/month or save with an annual subscription for $50/year.

I’m beyond grateful to finally share this story with you. Some of you have been following my journey and cheering me on for over a decade, and it means the world to finally bring you into this chapter. Thank you for being here.

And here’s what I want to leave you with—do the thing. Write the book. Make the art. Start the project. Chase the dream. Even if it doesn’t unfold the way you imagined, even if it takes longer than you thought, even if it morphs into something else entirely—it’s worth it.

Because the pursuit itself changes you. The work changes you. The showing up, the trying again, the letting go, the starting over—it shapes you into who you’re meant to be.

I thought my memoir would be the thing that got me published, but instead, it became the thing that shaped me—stretching me into who I was meant to be, pushing me toward healing, toward deeper writing, toward the courage to lay it all bare. And maybe that was the point all along.

So if there’s something calling to you—answer it. You don’t have to know how it’s all going to work out. You just have to start.

Your story matters. Your voice matters. Find a way to get it out into the world.

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What is a Serialized Memoir?

A serialized memoir is a memoir released in smaller sections—chapter by chapter—rather than all at once in a complete book. Think of it like a TV series instead of a movie: rather than bingeing the whole story in one sitting, you experience it in episodes, unfolding week by week.

It’s storytelling in real-time, allowing readers to follow the journey as it unfolds.

Some of the greatest literary works in history were first published in serial form before being bound into books. Charles Dickens, Alexandre Dumas, and Leo Tolstoy all released their novels chapter by chapter in newspapers or magazines. Now, thanks to Substack, serial storytelling is making a resurgence, offering writers a direct connection with their readers and an intimate, evolving way to share their work. I’m excited to connect with readers in this way, making space for reflection and deep dives into the process.

What is The One Who Leaves about?

At thirty, I was pulled back to the shit-hole town off Route 66 in the dust of California that I’d spent my life trying to escape because Mom was facing felony charges—again. I get her out of the Mojave for a weekend and away from her drug-fueled lifestyle so that I can explore our shared past in search of truth.

On the road, the narrative of Mom's life unfolds throughout the pages like a labyrinth: tales of home invasion well into the hundreds, her imprisonment with cellmate Susan Atkins from the Manson Cult, the meth lab Dad built in the garage of our sun-bleached house, the cast of homeless addicts I was raised around, and her role in the dissolution of our family.

These two narratives braid together, exposing the story of my life, but also my mother’s life. Of her unwavering love for me and her struggle to stay clean long enough to show it. Of my fight to understand her and accept the love she had for me all along, so that I could finally start a life of my own.

The One Who Leaves is a raw and unflinching exploration of the ties that bind us to family, the lasting impact of addiction, and the power of redemption—revealing who we become both because of, and despite, a mother’s love.

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