Ten years ago, at age seventeen, I wrote the words On Sundays, she picks flowers. This was the beginning of my NaNoWriMo project, five out of the fifty-thousand I expected to write. At the time I thought these words would go no further than my Tumblr. Some people would read it, I guessed, maybe fifty of my hundred or so followers. If it got really popular (read as: get more than a thousand notes), I might sell a handful of PDFs.
Today is January 27, 2026, and those five simple words, On Sundays She Picked Flowers, can now be found in any bookstore or library. You can read them on your Kindle, your iPad, your phone; you can, if you please, have it read to you by three of the silkiest, most mellifluous voices the audiobook industry has to offer. There are countless reviews, glowing ones even, ones that have made me cry real-life tears of joy, of relief.
What can I say except thank you? Thank you for the prayers and the cheers, thank you for the kind messages, thank you for believing me when I said I WILL be an author. Thank you, God. Thank you, Mommy and Daddy, and thank you, strangers on the street who listened to us try to sell this book. Thank you, friendship, and thank you, sisterhood. Thank you, love. Thank you, anger. Thank you, fear and hope and pure Aries stubbornness. Thank you, me, for choosing life and the future, even if you weren’t always confident this moment would come.
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