Five Things

five (unrelated?) stories and an exciting announcement!

One.

Instagram recently served me a reel of a beautiful singer. I’d never heard her before, and I spent the next 20 minutes on her page, enamored with her music, her voice. A few days later, I thought of her again and wondered if I could listen to her music on YouTube instead of logging onto IG. I plugged her name into the search bar but didn’t find any recent videos from her. Instead, I saw videos going back ten-plus years. In 2012, she was on one of those reality TV shows where unknown people compete on stage in front of judges with harsh opinions.

I thought back to that first reel I saw of her on IG. I assumed she had just started putting her music online, that she just started putting herself out there. Her first album came out two years ago—12 years after she was on that big stage. And who knows the countless years before that when she was practicing her scales—singing in the shower, in front of her family and friends—dreaming of the big stage.

Two.

When my first baby was four months old, I saw a post on Facebook about MOPS. I learned that MOPS wasn’t about cleaning, but it stood for Mothers of Preschoolers. It looked like a great community for moms to gather, connect with each other, get out of the house, and talk about Jesus. I searched online and, not surprisingly, learned there weren’t any groups nearby. For a moment, I thought about starting a group. I contacted MOPS to get information about starting a chapter, even though it seemed crazy—I had never even been to one of their meetings. I received an email from the organization; the woman was excited about my interest, telling me what I needed to do to get started. But then I looked down at my baby, who just learned to roll over. Who was I to lead a group of moms? I barely knew what I was doing.

Months later, I thought of that email again. One Sunday after church, I mentioned it to my Pastor, and honestly, I hoped he would tell me, “No, we’re not interested in hosting a group like that at our church.” At least I could say I tried.

Instead, without hesitation, he said, “Yes! What do you need me to do?”

After brushing aside my panic that he said yes, I reached out to one of my best friends, whose first baby was six months younger than mine. Both of us were new to motherhood, fully in the trenches of sleepless nights. I asked her if she wanted to lead with me. 

She said yes.

We led a group of moms for five years, many of whom were further ahead of us in motherhood. In that first year, I asked myself, and out loud, “Who am I to do this?” I can’t remember now if it was my pastor or my friend who responded, “God doesn’t call the qualified; He qualifies the called.”

Three.

A few days ago, I watched a recorded meeting from my local library on YouTube. Rhett came into the room and asked what I was doing. Quickly, he pointed to the screen and said, “They only have six subscribers! Allie, come see, they only have six subscribers!” 

I hadn’t even noticed that number there. How does he know about subscribers or followers?¹ He’s 9! And more importantly, Why does he care? 

His comment made me think of my Instagram. For years, I’ve hoped to gain a big enough following for a book agent or publisher to consider me—to believe my words are good enough. I don’t like to admit it out loud, but it’s the truth. I try not to care. I go weeks off of the app (which “they” say is bad for growing a following), I don’t post consistently (another faux pas), and I rarely show my face in stories or posts (another thing you’re “supposed” to do). 

Over the years, it’s felt like to be a writer, you also need to be an influencer. And that’s not something I’m comfortable with. I can’t help but wonder if I don’t want to be an author badly enough if I’m unwilling to play the game. 

Despite all that, even when I try not to care, whenever I post something with little to no response, I wonder, “Am I a terrible writer or just terrible at social media?”

Or both.²

Four.

Last week, I read “It Wasn’t Roaring, It Was Weeping” by Lisa-Jo Baker. It was so good, beautifully written, and a powerful story. I’ll be singing its praises for a while. In the acknowledgments, Lisa-Jo recognized how many years it took her to write the book; she thanked her agent for sticking with her. Lisa-Jo had the idea for the book ten years ago but wasn’t ready to write it yet. When she started writing, it still took her five years to finish what she had hoped to start years earlier.

As a reader, you can tell the book took time. Lisa-Jo carefully wrote each sentence and picked the right words—the story unrushed. Many times, I went back to read a sentence again, not because I didn’t understand it, but because it was so beautiful, I wanted to read it again.

The book was worth the wait.

I can’t help but think how different the book would have been ten years ago if she had forced herself to write it and not listen to her instincts that she wasn’t ready.

It’s easy to forget how long art takes to create in a digital world. I have access to millions (billions?) of videos and reels at the click of a finger. I can be instantly gratified countless times over. Except, I’m not really satisfied when I put my phone down. The app always leaves me wanting more or feeling like I’m not enough.

I rarely think about the reels I watch after I turn off my phone. But books, essays, and stories—those always stick with me. 

Five. 

This winter, I pitched a story to Trailblaz•her magazine. I assumed it would be rejected when I pitched, but I did it anyway. A few weeks later, I heard back, and they said they loved the idea and wanted to run it in their summer issue. My initial excitement quickly faded—the deadline was short, and self-doubt crept in. I doubted my story and my ability as a writer. For a split second, I considered emailing them back and turning down their acceptance. I worried I would embarrass myself in print, that my story wasn’t worth telling. 

After quieting my fears and remembering that once I say I’m going to do something, I do it, I began writing. My writing group gave me feedback on my piece, helping me turn it into something I’m proud of. 

I regularly write for a regional Montana magazine, and my words have been published in print many times. But those stories aren’t mine; they’re other people’s. This publication feels different.

Even though this story is about me, I know it’s no longer mine. Another writer and author, Callie Feyen, has said, “Once a story is published, it’s no longer my own. It’s the reader’s.” 

Now, I anxiously await people to step into the story—to make it their own.

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I know a magazine article isn’t the same as writing a book. But I’m honored (excited! thrilled! nervous!) to be included in this publication. While I didn’t spend five years writing the essay—I couldn’t have written it ten years ago or even five. 

The summer issue is available for pre-order³ and will ship out at the end of May. The publisher asked the guest contributors to keep our involvement in the issue under wraps until they officially launched it—and I can finally share!

I wrote a lot about numbers and followers in this post, and I don’t take it lightly that you choose to be here. Thank you for subscribing and reading my words.

1. I can thank the farming videos he watches on YouTube from farmers with huge followings.

2. I hesitated to share this section, but this story came out last week when I sat down to journal. I'm not sharing it in the hopes that people feel sorry for me or that I’m asking for likes or comments on social media. I hope it does not come across that I’m whining or that I only think about numbers. Truly, I don’t. But they are real feelings I’ve had over the years, and I’m guessing I’m not the only one who has felt like that at times. 

3. I didn’t get paid to write the article, but I receive a small commission when someone purchases the magazine using my affiliate link. I still feel a little weird sharing the magazine here, as I’ve never asked anyone to pay to read my words. 🥴