My First Byline

There’s a peculiar kind of magic in seeing your name in print for the first time. It’s a mix of elation, disbelief, and the creeping sensation that someone—anyone—might decide this was all a terrible mistake. For me, that moment came in the form of a 500-word feature in The Coastal Beacon, Kennebunkport’s most esteemed (and only) local newspaper. My subject? The annual Lobster Festival—a topic as salty and buttery as the town itself.

I was 22, fresh out of Bowdoin College, and full of all the awkward confidence that comes with carrying student debt and a Jane Austen quote rattling around your brain like a mantra: “It isn’t what we say or think that defines us, but what we do.” Well, Jane, I had done it, and what I had said and thought was now in black-and-white newsprint, nestled awkwardly between an ad for snow tires and a letter to the editor complaining about seagulls raiding trash cans.

Hooked on Lobsters (and Deadlines)

Writing about the Lobster Festival may not sound like Pulitzer territory, but trust me—it was the town event of the season. The stakes were high, not unlike navigating the early stages of flirtation. You see, in real life (and small-town New England), no one tells you there’s an unspoken dance when it comes to putting your story—or yourself—out there. Too much enthusiasm, and you're clingy. Too little, indifferent. I agonized over every word in my piece like my 18-year-old self once agonized over a text to my freshman crush: Thanks for lab day. You’re really good at microscopes.

I interviewed the festival organizer, a silver-haired maritime historian-slash-lobster wrangler who wore a sweater with embroidered crustaceans on it. I described the steaming pots of lobster, the waft of briny air on the docks, the shine of sun on the Atlantic—and in doing so, I fell more in love with storytelling than I had with the festival itself. Sure, my romantic ideal of “writer” at the time probably skewed closer to a brooding Jo March with ink-stained fingers, but the reality of filing this story gave me a thrill that was as electric as my first kiss—though, notably, less awkward.

The Vulnerability of Firsts

Let me tell you, writing for public consumption is a lot like putting your heart on the line in a budding relationship. It’s vulnerable by design. I’d handed my editor what I thought was a final draft, and she proceeded to do what any strong editor—like, say, a brutally honest best friend—does: she tore it apart lovingly but decisively.

“That sentence takes too long to get to the point,” she said, cutting one of my elegant metaphors about the Gulf Stream like it was extraneous parsley. (It wasn’t, but I let it go.) “How does this connect with your audience?” she asked, nixing my sweeping commentary on Maine’s Puritan lobster heritage. I walked out of her office stripped of nearly 100 words but holding on to one essential realization: It’s not personal, kid. Figuring out your voice requires edits, and if it feels a little like heart surgery—it is.

Imposter Syndrome Never Sleeps

When the paper landed on stands, I bought three copies at the general store and promptly hid them under a stack of magazines, lest anyone actually decide to read them. There’s something undeniably terrifying about putting yourself—or your work—out there for the first time. You worry what people will think. You imagine, however irrationally, that some literary gatekeeper will point in your direction and yell, "Fraud!”

But funny enough, no one did. My family, of course, made a scene at breakfast the next morning, my father holding the paper aloft like I’d won all the regattas in Maine with one hand tied behind my back. My mother invited the neighbors over later for lobster stew and impromptu congratulations—you know, as one does in a sea captain’s home. But the rest of the world just moved on. To them, it was a blip—a delicately spun story about the Lobster Festival—and I was free to write again, hopefully less terrified the next time.

Imagine it like this: your first piece is a lot like a first date after a long hiatus from the dating scene. You’ve overthought your outfit (or font choice), planned your talking points meticulously, and told your close friends to stand by their phones for updates. Then, the evening passes uneventfully. No grand disasters, but also no declaration of love. The world does, in fact, keep spinning.

Lessons from the Byline

Years later, I now consider my first byline an oddly romantic endeavor—and not just because it involved lobster, the most amorous of all shellfish (I mean, they mate for life, people). So, what did I learn? Like in dating—and in life—putting yourself out there is the hardest part. But once you’ve done it, you realize that the anticipation is often tougher than the reality.

Here are a few takeaways from that thrilling and terrifying moment of seeing my name in print:

  • Perfection is overrated. Whether it’s a thoughtfully crafted article or the flirtatious text you’ve rewritten seven times, your first draft doesn’t need to be perfect. It just needs to exist.

  • Feedback is your ally, not your enemy. Let others help you sharpen your ideas, whether it’s through edit suggestions or encouraging you not to use three exclamation points in a “just thinking about you” post-date text.

  • Celebrate your wins, however small. Maybe your byline is nestled between snow tire ads. Maybe your first attempt at connection in a new relationship goes awkwardly silent for 15 seconds. It’s all progress. Own it.

Full Steam Ahead

To this day, I keep a memento from that first byline tucked into my desk drawer—a copy of The Coastal Beacon, edge yellowed, my name almost obscured by a coffee ring. When I see it, I remember the exhilaration that comes with putting your voice out there. Sure, your first attempt will rarely be flawless, but it’s a step—and like any great sailor navigating unfamiliar waters, you’ll learn to trust your instincts.