When I was eighteen I wrote a self-insert Beauty and the Beast retelling with the premise, “What if the prince had accepted the enchantress’s rose? And what if they were true loves?” (And I gender-swapped them.)

I felt I was a hopeless romantic, and at that age I was starting to feel like the world was punishing me for it. I wrote myself as I saw myself, as both who I wanted to be and who I was afraid I was. I wrote my ‘true love’ as the boy I imagined I would be most receptive to in my painstaking desire to be desired.

And then I punished us for it, by letting reality make more sense than how we felt.

Somewhere in the process of writing this story, I realized it was not a standalone novel, and it was not the first book in its series. I knew there were two books that needed to come first and I immediately settled on retelling Snow White and then Cinderella. Though I made an attempt at starting the first one, I didn’t get far.

Within a year I met my now-ex-husband.

A few years into our marriage, I wrote and published four books while pregnant with and then while nursing our second child. This includes the first three books in that series, which I named Recovering Happily Ever After.

Within a year of publishing Book 3, I separated from my now-ex-husband. Months later the divorce was official.

I’m not sure I’d made a single attempt to write Book 4 all this time.

I know I did at one point, probably during the marriage. But it felt wrong. Like I wasn’t taking into account everything I needed to in order to write the book as it was meant to be.

And then writing was too painful.

I stopped writing consistently.

Sometimes I’d think I’d get back into it, that I’d get another book written and ready for publication, but emotionally I’d burn out within a handful of weeks.

In the last two and a half years I’ve made significant strides in my healing, and in the last few months I’ve been getting back into the habit of writing again. It’s been wonderful. I remember how spiritually fulfilling storytelling is for me. I’ve been working on new books and old books galore.

Just not that series.

Somewhere along the way, I intentionally shelved it. I had no plans to get back to it, and no plans to make plans.

Then along came my boyfriend.

I’ve nagged and begged exes to read my writing. I’ve bought them paperback copies of my books myself. Some read at least one of them, but only via me reading them out loud to them. There might be one exception, maybe. (He left a review, after we broke up I think.)

But this one? This one told me had plans to read them himself. Since then he’s read them all out loud to me, as reading to people is one of his favorite pastimes, and he seems genuinely excited about the story and the characters. He’s also bought two of the three paperbacks.

The further along he got, the more I felt that nagging guilt to get back to these books. After all, Book 3 is the series climax and it ends on a cliffhanger.

The guilt alone wasn’t enough of a push, though.

And then came my latest self-assigned therapy experiment.

I carry so much guilt and shame from my marriage. I’ve been increasingly aware of how my image of myself from that time is basically through the lens of how I think my ex-husband sees/saw and feels/felt about me. And that’s not okay. I need to do away with that.

A few weeks ago I asked my boyfriend if he’d be willing to reread my journal entries from my marriage with me, so that I could reframe my self-image and borrow his compassion towards me to do so.

He was happy to help, and we’ve been doing that.

Fast forward to the last couple days. Two nights ago, my boyfriend spent approximately two hours ranting to me about how frustrated he is with one of the POV characters in Book 3. Through his ranting, I realized what I’ve been missing all this time.

I know how to write Book 4.

Yesterday I started rereading Book 1 again and taking notes on what else the last two books in this series need to include.

I have no doubt that I would not be able to get back to this book if we hadn’t been rereading my old journal with that healing purpose.

When I think of these stories, I don’t necessarily feel like they’re attached to my marriage. Nor do I feel like they particularly drew anything from that time or trauma in my life.

Still, returning to writing that series feels like returning to a version of myself.

Maybe it’s partly because I wrote and published all of these in such quick succession. This is a timeline that I put on pause while struggling with mental illness, postpartum, a cross-country move, and everything else that was going on. I was a different person then, and I have to go back to that person and that time to remember what I was thinking and planning and what I tapped into to write these characters.

Feeling like it’s safer to return to myself means it’s also safer to return to this book.

Last night we left off with one chapter left of Book 3. He’s reportedly eager but anxious about reading this last one, because clearly not everything is wrapped up yet… I’ve been realizing I like doing that with this series. All it takes is one chapter to reframe everything you just read.

Life likes to do that to us sometimes, too.

Just this morning I reopened the original novel-length version of Book 3 that I started writing at eighteen years old. I scrolled to the very end to see if I’d finished it. I hadn’t. But, for whatever odd reason, the last page was a letter written from the enchanter to my self-insert princess. This caught me off guard. I read it hesitantly, expecting it to be sappy and embarrassing. Instead I was surprised. I think so little of my teenage self. I don’t give my younger self nearly enough credit. It wasn’t just a sappy love letter. It was evidence of how desperately I wanted to be seen, and the person I wanted to be seen as. That, to me, felt like love.

My boyfriend sends me a good morning message just about every day from work. It’s striking how similar those long heartfelt messages are to this letter I wanted to receive over ten years ago.

So, for today, I’m just going to leave you with this letter I had a fictional character once write to me, and the knowledge that I once again fully believe in a such thing as happily ever after:

Dearest Cailyn,

Let me clarify that I call you my dearest Cailyn not because you are the dearest of all my Cailyns, but because you are the dearest person I have ever met, and your name is Cailyn. 

I know you don’t believe I love you, but if I am only allowed one opportunity in my life to explain why you are wrong, let it be now.

First let me clarify that you are beautiful and perfect in every way. Those are only cherries on top of the cake though.

One. You are empathetic. You truly feel what other people feel and I’ve never known anyone to love so deeply even when we through our flaws drive you to infuriating grief. Two, you put others at ease. Everyone feels comfortable around you and even I feel myself capable of telling you things I’ve never before been capable of uttering aloud. Three, your sincere presence is truly gracious and even if your soul weren’t born to the title you would be a queen. The men and women here truly don’t perform their jobs because they’re your servants, but because you’re their friend. They respect you and care for you deeply and it makes me love you even more.

Four, I’ve told you before you are strong. Then, I didn’t know the extent of your strength. Even when you suffer most you make yourself presentable and have the same selfless smile which spreads warmth and love to all, which I also love about you. I don’t think you realize that you’ve never had to carry your burdens alone. You have always been surrounded by enough loving people to take all your troubles for you. Perhaps you cannot stand the thought of them carrying more, but you’re only weighing yourself down unnecessarily. If nothing else, I ask that you would at least let me share your burden as you shared mine with me.

Five, you are wise. Your teachings have enlightened me. I pray that will never stop, and I’m sure you have enough wisdom to school me on for a lifetime and beyond.

Six, there is so much to you I would have to steal all the rest of the parchment Tyrone has hidden away in order to do you justice. I fear this one must be enough..

But YOU, my darling Princess Cailyn, are the epitome of perfection, and I would like to spend the rest of our lives showing you just what I see.

Yours truly,

Jaydon Morrison

Want to read Book 1? You can find it here!