Why Women Write

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 There was a time—not that long ago—when women weren’t even allowed to publish their words. 

They wrote in secret. In the quiet hours after everyone else was asleep. They hid behind names that weren’t theirs because the world wouldn’t take a woman’s words seriously.

Mary Ann Evans became George Eliot. The Brontë sisters became Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell. They disguised themselves not out of vanity, but survival. Because a woman with opinions was “unseemly.”

 A woman with imagination? Dangerous.

And yet, they wrote anyway.

Because something inside them refused to stay quiet.

That Fire Still Burns

Fast forward to now. We can publish with one click. We can write under our own names, in our own voices.

And yet—those ghosts linger.

We still whisper to ourselves:

“Who am I to write this?”
“Who am I to think anyone will care?”
 

The truth? Every woman who’s ever put pen to paper has felt that. From Charlotte Brontë to the woman who sits in her pajamas staring at a half-finished draft on her laptop (hi,  sometimes that's me).

The Long Gallop Home

I just finished my first novel.

It took ten years— four years of research and rough drafts, six years of writing, doubting, deleting, rewriting, doubting again. (The doubting part should honestly get its own writing credit.)

Writing a novel is half endurance race, half spiritual reckoning. You become part detective, part historian, part therapist, and part caffeine addict. You talk to yourself. You cry at sentences that won’t behave. You fall in love with characters who refuse to cooperate.

Some days it feels like flying. Most days it feels like crawling.

And somewhere between the 5th rewrite and the 20th “I’m starting over,” you start to wonder if George Eliot ever hurled her inkwell at the wall and screamed, “WHY IS THIS SO HARD?”

I bet she did.
I bet every woman writer has, and still does.

So, Why Do It?

We do it because we have to.

Because the story won’t leave us alone. Because it hums under our skin until we let it out.

We write to understand. To heal. To shout and to whisper.
To prove, in the most human way possible, I was here.

My Time Has Come

After ten years of research, heartbreak, caffeine, and commas, I’m finally ready to share my story with you.

My debut novel, Devils on Horseback, is set during the Civil War in Missouri—a story of danger, resilience, and the impossible choices women faced when the world around them fell apart.

It’s a book about courage. About following your calling even when it scares you. And about how far we’ve come—and how much further we can ride. 

So yes… it took me a while. And it will take even longer to get through the publishing process.

But oh, reader, just wait till you start this story!