Some moments aren’t just memories—they’re plot twists. Mine was a phone call, a single spontaneous ring that yanked me out of one narrative and threw me headfirst into another.

But before I take you there, let me set the stage: It was an unseasonably sticky afternoon in Atlanta, the kind where even the air seems exhausted. I’d just wrapped up another glossy day writing about power couples at garden parties and the best prosciutto-wrapped figs in Buckhead. My job as a lifestyle magazine writer was safe and shiny, the ultimate in surface-level sophistication. And I hated it.

Don’t get me wrong—there are worse fates than nibbling on artisan charcuterie under the guise of “work.” But my articles were fluff. More fluff than the monogrammed seat cushions I wrote about. I dreamed of writing something real, something that would make people laugh through their tears or cry through their laughter. Instead, I was caught in this polished whirlpool of social columns, unable (or unwilling) to make my move. Until, of course, the call.

The Call: A Curveball in a Cashmere Sweater

The number was unfamiliar. I nearly ignored it, assuming it was a robocall about a car warranty I didn’t have. Reluctantly—because something about the universe felt insistent that day—I answered. “Hello?”

“Is this Caroline?” The voice on the other end was warm, Southern, and slightly amused, the kind of tone that makes you feel like a glass of iced tea on someone’s shaded porch.

“Yes, speaking.”

“This is Patricia Lovell from Midsouth House Publishing. I just finished reading your submission, and I have to ask—can you find time for a longer conversation?”

Sure, I’d submitted a manuscript a while back. A whimsical idea I’d stitched together during late nights with too much Earl Grey and just enough audacity. But I’d sent it off the way you send a message in a bottle—half hoping someone will find it, half hoping not to hear how bad your handwriting really is.

“I’d love that,” I croaked, fully forgetting how to arrange words in any coherent order. And just like that, the woman who had the kind of influence in Southern literature I could only dream of made me an offer. She wanted to work with me. She loved "what you’re saying about family expectations and the evolving South." My debut novel had a real shot.

I imagine this is what landing on Beyoncé’s guest list feels like: surreal, validating, and too good to be fully believed. My entire sense of self shifted on that call, cracking open like a pecan revealing its worth inside.

The Art of Surrendering to the Unexpected

Though life looks coordinated in hindsight, this moment wasn't planned. In fact, I nearly sabotaged it. My rough draft of the manuscript? A sprawling mess when I first started. Despite my Ivy League-worthy procrastination skills, despite an entire drawer of rejection letters from other publishers, I’d submitted anyway. My hand was shaky clicking “send,” convinced I'd only hear crickets.

But that’s the thing about bold moves—they don’t guarantee success, but at least they put you in the game.

Here are a few things I learned in the aftermath of my life-changing phone call. Maybe they’ll be useful to you (sans calligraphy-level pecan metaphors):

  • Don’t Wait Until It’s Perfect: I’m a recovering perfectionist. If you’re like me, you might spend years refining something no one sees. But imperfect progress makes for a much better story than perfect stalling. Write the book. Send the risky text. Apply for the job you’re only “kind of” qualified for.

  • Answer the Unknown Number (Sometimes): No guarantees here. Ninety percent of the time, it’s a spam bot telling you your credit score needs help. But every so often, the universe might sneak in, disguised as someone important.

  • Embrace Fear As a Sign You’re onto Something: You know that gut-twisting, heart-racing feeling? It’s not always a red flag—sometimes it’s a neon sign blinking: GO FOR IT.

Of course, no single magical moment rewrites everything. After the excitement, I still had to do the work. Spoiler alert: writing a book that isn’t exclusively about Magnolia trees is hard. But I dove in headfirst, rewriting messy chapters, removing adjectives I didn’t need, and trusting this unexpected chance wouldn’t evaporate beneath me.

Where the Phone Call Took Me

Two years later, my first book hit shelves—or, more accurately, Instagram. People loved the sass, the drama, and the unapologetic dive into my city’s peculiar mix of tradition and reinvention. I did press interviews, visited literary festivals in Southern towns that smelled like azaleas in bloom, and even spoke on a panel where Dolly Parton’s niece (yes, really) sat two chairs away.

And yet, more than anything, the validation from that publishing house wasn’t just about the novel. It reminded me I didn’t need to stay confined to what I "should" be doing. I didn’t have to stick to the known and the polished and the magazine-ready life. That phone call cracked open a universe where I could take risks, embrace chaos, and—dare I say it—follow my gut more than my spreadsheet.

What My Infamous Phone Call Has to Do with You

Not everyone is waiting on a publisher’s call. Yours could be something wildly different: a text from an estranged friend, a moment of clarity while standing in the Trader Joe’s wine aisle, or even that small internal voice pushing you to take a leap. These pivotal moments rarely arrive with fanfare or rose petals. Most will come unannounced, wearing khakis. But their power lies in how we answer.

So, when the phone rings—metaphorical or otherwise—pick up. Lean in. Even if your fingers tremble. Even when your doubts try to drown out the ringtone. That sound might just cue your life's next act.