Book club whispers and Christmas messages

I didn’t think my nervous system would ever recover from publishing a book.

The first few days were all adrenaline and refreshing pages like an absolute gremlin. Then Christmas happened. Wrapping paper, wine, family logistics, the annual shall we pretend this year won’t be chaotic optimism. I assumed everything book related would go a bit quiet.

Except it didn’t.

Somewhere in the middle of the festive madness, I got a message that basically stopped me in my tracks.

My book might be picked up by a book club.

A book club.

The thing real writers get invited to. The place where people sit in a circle, drink something cosy, and discuss characters like they personally know them. The place where you can’t hide behind a screen name or a funny caption, because real humans have read the words and now they have thoughts.

I’m not even going to pretend I reacted normally. I did that thing where you read the message once, then again, then you stare into the middle distance as if you’ve just been told you’re the long lost heir to a small European kingdom.

Then I started doing the maths in my head like a lunatic.

If one book club has, say, twelve people, and they all read it, and some of them tell their friends, and those friends tell their friends, this is how it happens, isn’t it? This is how books travel. Quietly. Word of mouth. One woman saying to another, you HAVE to read this.

And honestly, that’s the dream.

Because what I’ve realised is this. Sales are exciting, obviously. Reviews are thrilling, and mildly terrifying. But nothing compares to the feeling of someone choosing your book.

Not being politely supportive. Not doing a quick well done hun thumbs up from the sidelines.

Actually choosing it.

I’m making time to read your book.

That sentence landed in my chest like a warm drink.

Over Christmas I had a couple of mum friends message me saying exactly that. Not I’ll get round to it in the way we all say I’ll get round to it about literally everything. But proper intentional, grown up, I’m putting this in my life time.

One friend said she’d been waiting for a quiet pocket in between the chaos to start it. Another said she’d carved out a little reading slot just for herself, like it was a treat. And if that doesn’t make you melt into a puddle of gratitude, I don’t know what will.

Because we’re all busy. We’re all tired. We’re all pulled in seventeen directions at once. So when someone says they’re making time to read something you poured yourself into, it’s not small.

It’s huge.

It’s also weirdly emotional, because when you write a book, especially one that’s personal, messy, funny, heartfelt, and sometimes a bit oh my god did I really just tell the world that, you’re doing it alone. Even when you’re surrounded by life and noise and responsibilities, the writing part happens in your own head, with your own doubts.

You write the words. You edit the words. You panic about the words. You press publish and then immediately wonder if you should go and live under a rock.

And then someone reads them.

And not only reads them, they enjoy them.

They laugh. They relate. They message you.

And suddenly, you’re not alone with it anymore.

I don’t think people realise how much that means. Not just to me, but to anyone who creates anything and puts it out into the world. It’s like sending a little paper boat out onto the sea and then seeing someone pick it up on another shore and say, I found this. I loved it.

That’s the warm glowy feeling.

It’s pride, but softer. It’s relief, but brighter. It’s this gorgeous sense of connection. Of being seen.

And yes, I’m still slightly terrified at the thought of a book club discussing it. The idea of people analysing my life choices in a group setting feels bold. But if it happens, I hope they laugh, I hope they talk, and I hope it becomes one of those books that gets passed around with a you’ll love this.

Because that’s what I wanted when I wrote it. Not perfection. Not polish. Not some untouchable literary pedestal.

Just honesty. Heart. Humour.

And maybe a few women feeling a little less alone in their own stories.

So to the people who’ve messaged me over Christmas, to the ones making time to read, to the whispered possibility of a book club, thank you.

You have no idea how much that glow helps.

And if you see me staring into the distance this week with a daft smile on my face, don’t worry.

I’m just mentally practising what I’ll say if someone asks me a question about the book in public.

Probably, oh my god thank you, followed by immediate emotional sweating.

If you’ve read it and loved it, tell a friend — honestly, that’s how books find their people. I’m off to bask in this feeling for another 24 hours before the self-doubt returns with a clipboard.