Writing a novel is one of the scariest things I’ve ever attempted.
And I’ve done some scary things in my life:
- I’ve moved to two different provinces on my own, both times having no prior friends or family present when I arrived.
- I’ve come face-to-face with a bull moose during rutting season.
- I’ve spend 24 straight hours in the woods on a fasting solo sit. (The fear in this isn’t possible animal encounters at night, but rather the act of sitting silently for hours with nothing to distract you but your own thoughts.)
- I’ve risked – and received – rejection asking guys way out of my league out on dates.
Just to name a few. As my father is fond of paraphrasing from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, “The brave will only die once.”









