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After receiving an unexpected outpouring of ‘likes’ for a random photo I took while watching the swans with my daughter in Nesconset, Long Island—and shared on my IG story—my heart was caught between awe and quiet mourning. The swans were gliding through shallow waters, hemmed in by a tide that had pulled back and lily pads thick enough to block their path.

 

And I had a thought...

 

In my writing life—a “side hobby” that slowly became my deepest passion—I’ve known similar waters. I’ve navigated my own kind of murk: waters sometimes polluted by doubt, critique, or silence. But like the swans nudging their way forward—eating through the lily pads or pushing past them—I, too, have had to adapt. Not out of some grand sense of wisdom.
But out of sheer necessity.

 

I’ve begun publishing through smaller presses—grateful for what I’ve learned from them, whether directly or indirectly—but I wanted my work to carry my unaltered imprint, to remain true to my authentic voice in its semi-autobiographical form. And so I’ve adapted by turning to self-publishing. I haven’t even queried a literary agent, though perhaps I should have—to ease the emotional, mental, and financial burden of trying to do it all on my own, as I so often have.

 

Perhaps doing so—publishing through a mainstream press—might have helped bring greater attention to the lesser-voiced stories I’ve shared: stories that deserved the kind of professional marketing I couldn’t access, but which may be essential in today’s algorithm- and trend-driven literary world. (I hope it’s not too late. I plan to query soon.)

 

I’ve also had to adapt by making the most of limited support. Strangers online have often embraced my work more than some of those I once considered close friends—friends whose support rarely went beyond my first book, a “congratulations” message, or a passing social media ‘like.’ Few took the time to read my later works, or to keep a piece of me on their shelves as quiet moral support—even when the books were freely available during some of the promotional weeks I advertised.

 

Ironically, some of these very people inspired poems or characters—reflections of false-facade friendships—and they’ll never know it. But perhaps that’s the writer’s quiet power: a kind of innocent revenge, written in truth. ;)

 

As one of my poems puts it:

“...they call it experience and maturity,
...she hides that it’s necessary adaptability...”

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And another:

“...bleed out your heart,
...weed out the pain,
...through your art...”

 

Like the swans, I’ve learned to move through tangled waters with quiet resilience—making a path where there was none, finding grace even in the struggle. Nature adapts not for applause or excellence, but for survival. And so have I—writing my way through it all.

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