I type a sentence, read it aloud. I wonder: Will anyone even care? Does it even matter?

I agonize over every word. Every line. Every single punctuation mark. I rewrite, delete, move, rewrite again. And then I do what every writer does in the quiet moments of self-torture: I compare. I compare my words to every other author whose sentences seem effortless, whose books feel perfect, whose stories land like magic, and I think, Why can’t I write like that?

Some days, I feel completely alone. Like I’m spinning in a washing machine of rinse, wash, and repeat, pouring my heart into pages that may never matter to anyone else. I read a line and think it’s awful. I read it again, and it’s still awful. I laugh at my own jokes, hoping they’ll work on a child, but what if they don’t? What if the rhythm stumbles? What if the lesson hits wrong?

Some days, I feel the weight of every single word I’ve written, and it nearly crushes me. The fear of it all—not just the writing itself, but what it means if I fail at sharing it.

I’m not the only one who’s ever felt this way … right?

And yet … here’s the ridiculous thing. Even when I hate everything, I keep going. Because somewhere inside me is a stubborn little terrier of a spark, a story that refuses to die. Even when it’s messy. Even when it feels like no one is listening. Even when I’m pretty sure I’m talking to the plant on my desk.

I’ll admit it: some days, I cry over a single sentence. Not out of frustration (well, partly) but also because I care that much. Because I love these stories. Because I love the kids who might read them, even if I’ll never know their names. Because there’s magic buried in these words, and I need to protect it.

The agonizing isn’t just about “getting it right.” It’s about truth. The truth of the character. The truth of the emotion. The truth of the world I’ve built in a few pages that are supposed to feel alive, not just decorative. And there’s no blueprint for that. No instruction manual. Just me, my stubbornness, and the hope that I’ve captured a spark somewhere along the way.

Some days, I feel like giving up. Like I should stop agonizing and … send it into the world. But I can’t. Because I care too much. Because there’s a voice inside me saying, Finish this. Do it justice. Don’t. Let. It. Die.

And here’s the thing: this isn’t glamorous. There’s no sparkling “author life” montage. It’s me, hour after hour at my desk, late at night, or three in the morning, trying to figure out if this ellipsis creates the pause I’m hoping for, if this word choice sings, if this tiny moment will make a kid laugh, or gasp, or think, or, hopefully, feel a little less alone in this world.

I talk to myself a lot. I argue with myself. I read passages out loud until my voice cracks and my head hurts. I delete things I swore were brilliant. I rewrite them … again. I second-guess. I get angry. I spiral. I stew. And then I sit back and breathe, and I realize: I’m doing it. I’m writing. I’m building these little worlds, one painstaking sentence at a time.

Some days, I feel completely invisible.

Yet there’s the truth I cling to: despite the exhaustion, despite the self-doubt, despite the moments when I think the words will never come together, these stories deserve to exist. My voice deserves to be heard. And the kids who will someday read them deserve every ounce of care I can pour into them.

This is what it means to write children’s books. The highs, the lows, the late nights, the obsession, the tiny victories that bring me out of my chair for that brief happy dance. It’s the fear, the love, my stubborn spark that refuses to die. And no matter how lonely it gets, no matter how absurdly impossible it feels some days, I keep showing up. Because someone—maybe a child in a library or a classroom somewhere—might just feel seen. And if that happens, then it’s all worth it.

Some days, writing feels like I’m talking to outer space. But some days … those same words land exactly where they were meant to. And when that happens, it’s magic.

Writing is the loneliest thing I’ve ever done. And some days, it’s the most alive I’ve ever felt.

Those days are going to happen, dear friend. This is my sign to you … never let them stop you from writing.