“My handwriting looked ridiculous. There it was, blown up and displayed on a glossy page for all of Atlanta to see—or at least the fraction of readers who picked up Southern Social Monthly. But oh, how I beamed as I held that issue, like I’d just been crowned Miss Buckhead (if such a thing even existed). It wasn’t the Pulitzer, sure, but my name sat confidently above 500 words of my storytelling. Words that, let’s be honest, I probably overwrote. My first byline was proof that I, Carrie Mayfield, was officially a writer.”

The Headline Glitz and Gut-Wrench: Landing My First Byline

I wish I could tell you my first piece was a breathtaking exposé. Maybe a groundbreaking commentary on gentrification in Atlanta or a heart-wrenching ode to Southern resilience after a hurricane. Nope. It was a preview for a restaurant opening—specifically, an upscale farm-to-table spot nestled in Buckhead Village that promised truffle everythings and a waitlist longer than a Bergdorf bridal sale line.

And yet, that little review was the spark—the green light signaling a bigger journey ahead. It’s funny how, for some of us, the “arrival” moment isn’t a red carpet unfurling; it’s just a quiet pat on the back and a blinking cursor waiting.

Butter-Soft Leather Booths…and Butterflies

I didn’t just write about the restaurant. I inhaled it. Of course, I had no business knowing how to describe dry-aged wagyu at 22, but I tried. I threw words like “unctuous” and “sumptuous” into the draft like confetti at one of those OTT debutante parties. Side note: Do you ever hear a word so often you’re convinced you can nail it on a first try? That was me with “umami.” Spoiler: I couldn’t.

When the editor emailed back—timestamp, 10:03 p.m., which convinced me she worked vampire hours—her notes were both constructive and blunt. “More you. Less thesaurus. Tell us how it feels sitting in that big butter-soft leather booth.” And, oh, did I feel. Like I wanted to high-five that waiter for the perfect bruleed edge of the tart, and then promptly crawl under the table in case anyone caught me taking furious notes mid-meal.

Headline Anxiety: When Your Name Feels Bigger Than Your Story

That first byline… it’s wild. It’s like an engagement ring. Once it’s on the metaphorical hand, you feel giddy. But as it stares back at you from print (or, these days, the infinite scroll of social feeds), self-doubt clutches you in a vice grip.

Did my restaurant piece reek of desperation-to-impress? Was my “conversation about locally sourced produce” actually engaging, or did it sound like the forced banter of someone cornered at a Georgian pecan festival?

Being new at anything—all nerves and flailing confidence—sort of feels like a bad first date. You overthink. Did I laugh too loud? Bring up my wallpaper obsession too soon? Drink sparkling water incorrectly? (Fun fact: Yes, I once choked on bubbles at a smug sip-and-see. Classy isn’t always in my wheelhouse.)

Here’s What I Learned from That First Byline

  1. Hunt for Details—Not Perfection
    Forget literary genius. That first byline taught me to lean into what I noticed. Like the way the sunlight played off the crystal water glasses at the restaurant. Or how the place felt cozy instead of intimidating because there was a silky line of jazz balancing the hum of conversation. The same rings true in relationships: noticing the quirky details—like how someone grins when they talk about their beagle—beats striving for robotically “good” chats.

  2. Your Voice Isn’t Fully Baked, and That’s OK
    My editor told me to “let my voice shine.” Awesome advice… if I’d fully located my voice. Everyone waxes poetic about finding authenticity, but no one prepares you for how awkward it feels when you’re trying to sound like you before you even know who you are on the page. (Replace “page” with “life,” and there’s a deeper thought for you.) Take solace in this: experimentation isn’t failure. It’s dating your voice.

  3. Being Real Doesn’t Mean Being Unpolished
    I had this idea that “authenticity” meant raw, unedited emotion. But there’s an art to delivering honesty without being sloppy. For my dating readers: this applies when DMing sans proper punctuation. It can look careless—not charmingly casual. Aim for real and clear.

Connection Over Commentary

Here’s the kicker: when the article hit newsstands (remember those?), something surprising happened. An acquaintance from a summer gala—the kind where you network over canapés so tiny you feel awkward taking more than one—sent me an email.

“I saw your name in Monthly! You nailed it!”

I didn’t know she even followed local features, let alone that she’d pick up my first baby of a byline. We weren’t close, but that email stayed with me. It hit me that writing isn’t just about crafting elegant descriptions or clever metaphors. It’s about connecting—even when that connection feels as inconsequential as a shared nostaglia over last year’s goat-cheese mousse hors d’oeuvre.

Love Your Cringe Moments

Do I still cringe at the overwritten attempts in that first piece? For sure. (Who casually references Gone with the Wind to describe ornamental parsley?). But now, I see those cringes differently. They’re footprints. Proof I didn’t stay stuck in the dream-if stage.

Whether it’s a byline, a first date, or taking the leap on something you’ve been too intimidated to start, the beginning rarely feels polished. But without that awkward first, you don’t get to the seamless seconds and thirds.

So, to all the fresh daters, new writers, and overthinkers reading this: you’re not alone. None of us show up on Day 1 knowing exactly who or what we’re supposed to be. But give yourself enough courage to show up anyway. You just might surprise yourself—or, if you’re lucky, land in butter-soft leather with glimpses of greatness ahead.