Five Books In

I spent years bringing my characters to life. Through a time loop, I connected Miles Monroe to a history he knew only from reading textbooks. In a state of confusion he sat on a rock, listening to the story of slaves, longing for home. I was with Dabnis, giving an understanding of why he killed the star of the basketball team. His moment of insanity is relatable to most, but denied by many. I peeled back years, eating at the table with my inner child. When I finally admitted to her it wasn't her fault, she gifted me with the key to the shackles on my feet, in exchange for her healing.

I knew it was time.

I unlocked my shackles, planning my writing debut. Six months later, there I was, still planning. The publishing industry was intimidating. Should I self-publish or go the traditional route? Who can forget the enormous amount of literary agents to choose from? I’m not trying to sound defeated, but the testimonials from authors counting their rejection letters gave me anxiety. No one wants to feel rejected? And what did I have to write to be considered for one of those heartbreaking responses?

Immerse yourself in the writing world. Find your audience, build a following, and pick a niche. No, wait, you need a genre. Consolidate my thoughts into one category, the nerve of these people. I’m still working on it, but I can tell you this, the people I love and care about are not a part of my audience. I had to find the real readers, the bookworms, the people that go to Staples on Sunday to buy a pack of multi-colored pens. Now the hard part of allowing them to read my work.

The thought of giving my work to vultures placed a knot in my chest. How can I drop my baby in a writing sea of piranhas? Before I let go, I would rather peel the skin off my fingers. I went to my 9 to 5 job doing just what I said, using my hands to hold calluses, not pens. I figured I could move up in management by using my writing skills to build spreadsheets and update training materials. Instead, I created fantasy worlds, seeking out anyone willing to listen to me talk about my writing. I became known as the girl who writes books. The name called to me, and I realized the truth of who I am and asked myself the hard question. How long will you continue to build someone else’s dreams?

As a writer from the heart, I never wanted to look back with regret and wonder what might have been if I had gone for it. I followed that route. My search led me to a writing club that provides writers with tools. Creative writing classes, critique groups, pitch parties, you name it, they had it. I signed up for an event called Spotlight on the Author in Atlanta. I live in Charlotte. In your head, I know what you're saying, but what was I thinking? At this point, my creative juices were driving.

I had five minutes to tell a crowd of readers and writers, you know, that audience I was searching for, about my writing career and my books. Afterward, I could set up my books on a table in the back for sale. I finally found my moment, my shine. The day my children could look at me with proudness in their eyes.

I sat in the second row in the audience beside eleven other authors waiting for their five minutes of fame. One by one, they went up to the podium, reading their story off planned sheets of paper. Whenever I want, I can talk about my writing, no need for a paper reminder. I was ready.

Please welcome Nikita Harris.

My stomach dropped, walking to the spot where memories of overcoming cancer and graphic novels about interracial dating lingered. I knew my name and the names of my books. The thirty seconds it took to say it was all I gave them. Consumed in fear, I botched my moment. All I could do was walk to the back table and sit, hoping someone would show pity and talk to me. The overwhelming sadness consuming me grabbed my box, packing my books up. All I could think of was getting back in my car and taking the drive back home I planned for the next day.

“I like your cover. Did you make it yourself?”

“Yes,” my voice was shaky from the surprise visit.

He picked up my book, flipping it to the back wanting more information.

“Seems interesting. Can I read the first few pages?”

“Go ahead.”

My characters took over, speaking the words I was unable to find. They allowed a sneak peak, making my guest wonder, why the fast running and harsh words. It was as if they jumped out of the pages and placed choke holds on whomever touched them, letting me know they would always show up for me because I always show up for them. I sold five books that day from the reading of the first chapter. And guess what? I was the only one who sold any books.

As a result of that day, I discovered that writing is not only my passion, but also my way of breathing. It’s my job to do this. Although, I have yet to find the perfect platter to present my work to the world. There’s a table in front of me.