It might sound like a big deal—but it’s not. It’s just another step. One more rung on the ladder.
Writing is already a demanding task. But self-publishing? That’s a whole different beast. Why? Because you have no name. No one knows who you are. And if, like me, you’re publishing your first book, there’s no reference to say whether what you’ve written is good… or not.
And yet, here I am. With a calm, comfortable job. So why complicate things?
Because when I write, time fades. Hours slip by like they were never there. I feel like I’m creating—truly creating—doing something that flows from passion, not obligation. And that… that’s priceless.
Since I was a kid, imagination has defined me. Teachers used to say I always had my head in the clouds. And they weren’t wrong. But as time passed, I “came back down to earth.” I became more grounded, more practical. Oddly enough, that didn’t help me. Life turned into repetition. Days blurred into one another. Years of rowing without direction. Only when I imagined—when I got lost in stories—did I feel free. That’s when I felt like I was doing what I was meant to do.
Now, with nearly five decades behind me, I can feel life pulling me toward a duller version of myself. Like a current dragging me toward the rocks instead of the shore. And right there, I felt the urge to push back. To try. To look up and ask: why not?
Why not do what I love?
Why not fight for it?
And so, I did.
I stopped dreaming in silence. I stopped talking without acting. I wrote my first novel—and I’ve decided to share it. Because when I write, hours drift by like sighs. Because I enjoy it. Because I love it. And because living this way has always been my real dream.
I’ve got age. I’ve got scars. And I’ve got enough battle-worn skin to know the road ahead won’t be easy.
But then again—what path worth walking ever is?
J.F. Goulding