There’s a special kind of terror that comes when you see your name in print for the very first time. It’s a mix of exhilaration and dread, like confessing your feelings to a crush and then immediately overanalyzing every word. That’s exactly how I felt when my first byline appeared in a regional magazine about local wildlife. My task? Writing about the habits of the elusive sage grouse.
Romantic, right? Who wouldn’t dream of breaking into the writing world with an essay about a puffed-up, ground-dwelling bird? But for me, it was nothing short of monumental. Seeing the words “by Willow Fitzgerald” in print felt like I had finally bridged the gap between where I was and where I wanted to be. What started as a schoolgirl’s dream of notebooks filled with unfinished stories on Montana’s windswept plains had become something I could hold in my hands. It just happened to involve an eccentric chicken-looking creature.
What I didn’t realize back then, though, was that landing that byline taught me a few truths about connection—truths I’ve come to treasure over years of writing, loving, and living under Montana’s big skies. So, whether you're taking the plunge into writing, relationships, or just trying something new, here’s what I wish I’d known during that nerve-wracking, exhilarating moment.
1. Start Where You Are (Even If It Feels Small)
When I first pitched my sage grouse story, I was fresh out of school, sending desperate emails from a too-small desk in my rented apartment in Missoula. I wanted to write sweeping essays about life and love, but nobody wanted that from an unknown kid who had more rejection emails than groceries in her fridge. So, I said yes to the niche stuff. Birds? Sure. Land conservation? You bet. A lifestyle piece about homemade elk jerky? Why not.
In relationships, starting small often looks like putting yourself out there, even when it feels risky. Maybe you’re asking someone out for coffee or admitting you’ve never seen The Office because sitcoms just aren’t your thing (a statement that sends potential suitors scrambling for the nearest exit, I’ve learned). Vulnerability doesn’t have to be grand—sometimes, it’s just showing up and being honest about where you’re at.
Here’s the kicker: those seemingly small things have a way of snowballing. My sage grouse piece turned into a gig writing about Montana’s prairies, which ultimately led to my first novel. The same thing happens in relationships. Tiny moments—a shared laugh, a thoughtful gesture—lay the foundation for bigger connections later. So, embrace the sage grouse moments. They matter.
2. The Magic Lies in Specificity
This is the advice I got just before my editor hit publish: “Don’t try to make everyone love it. Just make it real.” My editor knew that writing about sage grouse needed to be sharp, funny, and detailed—not generic. Readers don’t connect with something bland and forgettable. They connect with specifics—the bird’s peculiar strut, the sound of its chest sacs inflating like a deflating basketball, the smell of sagebrush in mid-July.
In relationships, it’s much the same. Specificity is where the magic lives. The way someone scrunches up their nose when they eat a sour gummy. The sound of their laugh when they hear a corny pun. Too often, we aim for perfection: the perfect date, the perfect compliment, the perfect opening line (“Hey” is not it, FYI). But what really sticks are the quirks and details that make you uniquely you. Like, I’ll never forget when someone told me they loved how I always smelled like campfire and coffee—a side effect of my love for both. That was way more memorable than, “You’re nice.”
So, don’t edit yourself down to what you think someone wants. Be unapologetically specific. Trust me—whether you’re writing or dating, there’s nothing more captivating than authenticity.
3. Failure Feels Awful, but It’s Never Final
When that sage grouse article hit newsstands, I expected a ticker-tape parade. Instead, I got one angry email from a guy who claimed I mischaracterized the bird’s mating dance (“It’s a little fancier than you said,” he wrote). I laughed it off at the time, but deep down, I panicked. Had I made a mistake? Was I a complete fraud? Would every future editor blackball me for disrespecting—gasp—the complexity of avian romance?
Looking back, I see how minor that moment was, but it’s easy to let small stumbles consume us. I’ve felt similarly in relationships, too. A misstep—a text left too long unanswered, a joke that doesn’t land—can send anyone spiraling into self-doubt. But here’s the thing: if you’re constantly worried about getting it wrong, you’ll never give yourself the chance to get it right.
There’s grace in fumbling. It’s what makes connection real. Be willing to mess up, whether it’s in love or a passion project. You’re not going to nail it every time, but trying is what keeps the magic alive.
4. Celebrate the Moment—Even If It Feels Awkward
I didn’t really celebrate my first byline. I was so busy nitpicking sentences and worrying about that angry email that I forgot to let myself enjoy what I’d accomplished. I didn’t frame the article or buy myself a fancy espresso to mark the milestone. (I did, however, finish an entire bag of licorice in stress-fueled bites, so... maybe that counts?)
Relationships thrive when we take time to celebrate—whether it’s the start of something new, a shared triumph, or just the fact that you and someone special survived a Monday. I’ve learned that no connection is too small to honor. My ranch-bred parents taught me this with quiet consistency, celebrating even modest victories like a day without broken fences or a mare recovering from colic. Life happens in the details, after all.
So, whether you're looking back on your first byline or your first date, don’t let the awkwardness stop you from sneaking in a little joy. As imperfect as the moment might be, it’s the beginning of something bigger.
5. Keep Showing Up
After my sage grouse debut, I kept writing. I wrote about elk migration, fly fishing, ranch weddings—if it crossed Montana's rolling countryside, it probably ended up in one of my essays. And while I’ve moved on from bird profiles, I’ll never forget what it felt like to see my name on the page for the first time. It wasn’t just validation; it was a call to keep creating, to tell more stories, and to keep showing up, even when it felt scary.
In romance, too, that’s what it takes. Any lasting connection—whether built through laughter, tears, or a lifetime of shared sunsets—starts with willingness: a willingness to be brave, to try, to stay when it’s easier to walk away. Whether it’s writing your heart out or falling in love, the key isn’t perfection. It’s persistence.
Seeing my name in print for the first time was terrifying, sure, but it also cracked something open in me—a belief that maybe I could do this. And isn’t that what we all crave, whether in our careers, relationships, or risks too wild to name? The chance to leap, to try, and maybe even to succeed?
So, here’s to the sage grouse moments in your own life. However small they seem, they’re worth cherishing. Who knows what big, beautiful things they’ll lead to?
