A Waiting Room

I went to an antique store for research.

In the second book I’m drafting, a pop-up antique shop appears in town, and I wanted to get a sense of being in a place where old artifacts are waiting for their second, or even third lives. Antique shops have atmosphere and texture. The sort of thing you need to feel before you write.

The shop I visited used to be a florist and greenhouse. It’s enormous, filled with winding aisles and carefully curated chaos. Tucked toward the back, though, is something unexpected: a library section. Shelves of books. A quiet corner. A space that can be cleared out for local author readings.

When I mentioned I was writing a cozy mystery, that I’d come in for "vibes," the owner didn’t laugh. She didn’t politely nod and change the subject.

She said, "When it’s published, you should do a reading here." She explained that the large library at the back of the shop could be cleared out, chairs moved in, coffee and tea brought in from Tims or a local cafe, make it an ideal place for readings.

It was surreal.

I’m still drafting. I prefer traditional publishing, which means I don’t control timelines. There are revisions ahead, queries to send, and a long road between manuscript and book-in-hand. Nothing is guaranteed.

And yet.

For a moment, someone else saw me as a real author. Not a person trying to write a book. Not someone dabbling. An author. With a future event. In a room that already exists.

There’s something powerful about that. There's a powerful feeling when you're seen before you feel finished.

I don’t know when, or if, my book will find its way to a bookstore shelf. I don’t know what path it will take to get there.

But I do know this: I will keep writing.

Because sometimes the smallest moments of encouragement are enough to remind you that the work you’re doing in private is real, and you’re not foolish to believe in it.

Somewhere in town, there’s a room lined with books that holds an invitation.

And that’s more than enough reason to finish the draft.