Apparently, It's Been a Year.

— So. It's been a year.

Already?

— Yep.

Yikes.

—

— When you started Writuals, what did you think you were doing?

Making notebooks.

— Just notebooks?

Okay. Notebooks. A planner. A few journals.

— And now?

Now I know that starting a stationery company also involves becoming semi-expert in paper mills, pollinators, native seed varieties, shipping logistics, craft fairs, profit margins, packaging regulations, shipping labels, and homemade glue recipes.

—

— When did you realize this whole thing was taking up more space than expected?

Probably when my husband staged what looked suspiciously like an intervention about shipping boxes.

— An intervention?

Let's call it a very serious conversation about the fact that a business could not continue expanding indefinitely into every room of our condo.

— And?

Let's just say the workshop had started spreading.

Quietly. Insidiously. And I could barely see the surface of my desk anymore. At a certain point, the project stopped existing inside my notebooks. It existed physically.

Everywhere.

— That seems reasonable.

I think so too.

—

A year ago, I thought I was starting a business.

Today, I think I accidentally launched a large-scale experiment to determine how much information a person can learn about a subject before becoming mildly exhausting at family dinners.

The answer appears to be: much less than I originally thought.

—

— What was the hardest part?

The uncertainty.

— Wondering whether it would work?

Yes.

But also realizing that I didn't even know what "working" meant.

— Ah.

I thought one day I would cross an imaginary finish line and tell myself:

There.

Success.

— And?

That line doesn't exist.

It keeps moving.

A lot like motherhood.

I thought at some point someone would hand me the official handbook and confirm that I was doing things correctly.

That never happened.

With a baby, everything changes constantly.

Then the child changes.

Then we change.

Then our definition of what matters changes too.

I think business is much the same.

You begin thinking you're searching for a destination.

Then you realize you're mostly learning how to walk.

— And yet you did it.

I did.

And honestly, that still surprises me.

— Why?

Because for a very long time, I defined myself by my ability to be ready.

Ready before starting.

Ready before launching.

Ready before trying.

Ready before showing up.

Ready before taking up space.

I was excellent at preparing.

Exceptional, even.

An Olympic-level researcher.

A world champion of Excel spreadsheets.

— That sounds like a compliment.

It's not.

Because there's a difference between preparing to do something and actually doing it.

For a long time, I confused the two.

I thought I was moving forward.

Sometimes I was just running laps inside a very attractive PowerPoint presentation in my head.

—

Then Rosalie arrived.

And something changed.

—

I think motherhood shattered several illusions I was very attached to.

Most notably, the belief that the perfect moment would eventually arrive.

Because babies don't respect deadlines.

Or plans.

Or calendars.

Or ambitions.

Or sleep schedules.

Suddenly, waiting for everything to be perfectly aligned stopped being a realistic strategy.

So I started.

Not because I was ready.

Because I was tired of waiting.

—

That's probably the most important thing this year taught me.

Courage is much less glamorous than we're led to believe.

Courage is rarely a heroic moment accompanied by an inspiring soundtrack.

More often, courage looks like answering an email.

Booking a market.

Publishing something.

Making a phone call.

Sending a file to print.

Trying again.

Trying again.

And then trying a third time because the glue had other plans.

Courage is surprisingly administrative.

—

This year I learned how to sell.

How to produce.

How to write.

How to fail.

How to begin again.

How to accept compliments without immediately wanting to disappear into the woods.

How to trust my instincts.

How to make decisions more quickly.

How to accept that some things will never be perfect.

I learned that a market can be a complete disaster and still be worthwhile.

I learned that one person stopping at your booth can completely change your week with a single sentence.

I learned that the people who are meant to find Writuals usually do.

And that the people who don't understand what we're doing don't need to be convinced.

—

— What surprised you most?

People. Always people.

The artisans.

The customers.

The women who shared their stories while flipping through my matrescence journal.

The people who stopped at a market and immediately understood what we were trying to create.

As though we were already speaking the same language.

—

— And what moved you most?

The number of people who carried this project alongside me.

Without hesitation.

Because we love telling entrepreneurial stories as though they're solitary adventures.

One person.

One idea.

Lots of determination.

The end.

Reality looks nothing like that.

Reality looks like my parents reading my writing. Challenging my thinking. Asking the right questions. Watching Rosalie. Helping me gain perspective when I'm convinced a typo is about to bring down the entire business.

—

It looks like my in-laws opening their home to this project. Finding furniture. Finding solutions. Making space where there wasn't any. And somehow remaining enthusiastic about my endless stream of ideas. Which is honestly a talent.

—

It looks like my husband continuing to support me even when my sentences begin with:

"I have an idea."

Which, statistically speaking, does not always lead to a relaxing week.

—

It looks like Hereiti and Emy trying my products, sharing them, recommending them, and cheering them on with a generosity that still moves me.

Believing in this project, naturally.

—

It looks like Charles, who is always willing to help me set up a market booth, armed with kindness, calm, and exactly the right words.

Every single time.

—

It also looks like the artisans I've met along the way.

The conversations behind booths.

The encouragement exchanged between visitors.

The people who chose to share their experiences, their advice, and sometimes simply their presence.

—

And it looks like you, too.

The people who read these posts.

Who follow the project.

Who comment.

Who share.

Who stop by at markets.

Who purchase our products.

Who tell someone else about Writuals.

Who are still here. Hi. 

—

— More seriously, what did this year teach you?

That some things are worth doing even when they're not efficient.

Even when they're not easy.

Even when they're not profitable.

Even when they take longer.

I think that's true of craftsmanship.

Friendships.

Communities.

Children.

Projects.

A lot of things, really.

I also learned that slowness is not a personality trait.

It's a decision.

A decision I have to make over and over again.

Because my natural tendency is still to do twelve things at once while simultaneously developing a strategic plan for the next thirteen.

—

— And today?

Today, I have more confidence.

More questions, too.

I believe more in small things.

Imperfect projects.

Local communities.

Objects made slowly.

Ideas that take time.

The seasons.

The returns.

The possibility of change.

—

— Do you know where all of this is going now?

Not at all.

— Really?

Really.

I know I have ideas. Far too many ideas.

I know some products already exist inside my notebooks.

I know others will have to wait.

I also know there's a two-year-old.

Almost certainly a second child soon. (Yes. I know. Slightly ambitious.)

I know there will be surprises.

Detours.

Things that take longer than expected.

Things that arrive sooner.

I know Writuals will probably continue evolving the way it always has: somewhat organically, somewhat chaotically, and with far more paper than should legally be permitted.

— Doesn't that worry you?

Surprisingly less than it used to.

— Why?

Because a year ago, I thought I needed to know the destination before leaving.

Today, I believe more in the road itself.

I believe more in curiosity.

I believe more in moving forward without having all the answers.

And for someone who spent a very long time trying to organize her life into perfectly aligned columns, that's a pretty significant character development.

—

I also think some of the most beautiful things in my life began exactly the same way.

Without guarantees.

Without certainty.

With a slightly irresponsible amount of optimism.

A marriage.

A child.

A business.

Another child someday.

Who knows?

—

— And Writuals in all this?

I thought I was building a business.

Today, I think I was mostly building proof.

Proof that I could still begin something.

Proof that I could still learn.

Proof that I could still surprise myself.

Proof that the version of me I thought I'd lost somewhere between responsibility, motherhood, and sleep deprivation was still there.

She was simply busy.

—

— So. It's been a year.

Yes.

— And now?

Now?

I have a few ideas.

— Obviously.

Obviously.