Let me take you back to 2003. I was 23, and my bank account had just enough pocket lint and ramen money to last me through the month. It was the year I pitched a personal essay to a local magazine—the kind you find in the lobby of a dentist’s office or stacked next to pamphlets for fly-fishing guides. It was also the year my words made it into print for the first time, officially transforming me from “Avery Townsend: Lake Dreamer” to “Avery Townsend: Published Writer.” Cue the internal fireworks.

If you’ve ever tried to canoe across Lake Coeur d’Alene in February—a treacherous mix of glassy stillness and bitter cold—you can imagine the blend of excitement and terror I felt when I hit “send” on my submission email. It was the kind of audacious move that had me thinking, “Is this bold, or am I just horrifically underqualified?” Spoiler: It was both.

The Pitch That Started It All

I grew up immersed in stories: swapping ghost tales with campfire tourists at my family’s lakeside resort, losing myself in dog-eared paperbacks, inventing wild adventures for afternoons spent chasing the sun through tall pines. Still, sharing my writing with the world? That felt like standing at the edge of a diving board, looking down at icy waters that whispered, “No lifeguard on duty.”

The essay I pitched was a sweet-but-slightly-embarrassing ode to my hometown, a place that feels as much a part of my DNA as the freckles on my shoulders. I wrote about a summer I worked as a dock hand and fell hopelessly in crush with an obnoxiously charming boy named Dean, who couldn’t tell the difference between a canoe paddle and an oar. I’ll spare you the plot summary, but let’s just say it involved way too much sunburn, several mixtapes, and an epiphany about the futility of teenage love.

When I hit “send,” I had no expectations. None. I figured the editor would skim it, decide it wasn’t quite the coastal chic meets rustic charm vibe they were going for, and chuck it into the ether. But three weeks later, an email popped into my inbox: “We’d love to publish your piece for our upcoming summer issue!” I didn’t even read the entire email before calling my mom. I’m fairly certain I screamed into the receiver like a contestant on “The Price Is Right.”

And Then, The Waiting Game

That’s the thing about writing: so much of it is waiting. Waiting for an idea. Waiting for the caffeine to kick in. Waiting to see your name in print after obsessively rewriting a single sentence eighty different ways because “Is this comma placement ruining my life?”

After the acceptance email, the editors requested a few small revisions—mostly cutting down my overwrought attempts to compare Dean’s laugh to a loon’s call. (Why 23-year-old me thought that was charming, I’ll never know.) The weeks crawled, and I started second-guessing every word, wondering if they’d made a terrible mistake or if I was just the literary equivalent of a blind date they couldn’t politely bail on.

But when the magazine finally arrived in my hands, I felt something I can best describe as “pure, embarrassing pride.” There it was: my name, printed in plain serif font beneath the title, visible to anyone who cared to flip past the ads for ATV rentals and cookie recipes.

Lessons From the Byline

So, how did a small-town girl with a knack for romanticizing summers on the lake land her first byline? Here’s what I learned—both then and now—about taking that terrifying first leap:

  • You Don’t Have to Be Perfect. My essay wasn’t Shakespeare. It wasn’t even Taylor Swift’s more poetic Instagram captions. But it was sincere, and sometimes sincerity trumps perfection. People relate to honesty, not flawless prose.

  • Rejection Isn’t Personal. For every “yes,” there’s a mountain of “no’s” you don’t get to see. Back then, I assumed rejection was a reflection of my abilities. Today, I know the publishing world—and life in general—is more like casting a fishing line. Sometimes the fish are hungry; sometimes they’re just not.

  • Celebrate the Wins, Big or Small. Did a $40 honorarium pay my rent? Not even close. But that essay was proof that someone out there believed in my voice enough to share it. When you’re starting out, that’s worth its weight in gold.

What My First Byline Taught Me About Relationships

Now I’m about to get a little metaphorical, so hang onto your flannel shirts. That first byline? It taught me a thing or two about life and love, too. Here are some truths I uncovered along the way:

  1. Put Yourself Out There, Even When It’s Scary. Sending that essay felt as vulnerable as walking into my high school crush’s cabin wearing neon Birkenstocks and a “Love Actually”-level confession taped to my chest. Relationships are much the same: you can’t connect with someone if you’re too afraid to show your real, messy, wonderful self.

  2. Revisions Are Part of the Process. Whether it’s an essay or a relationship, nothing’s perfect the first round. You might discover edits you need to make—things you could say better, or sticking points that need compromise. Love, like writing, grows richer when you’re willing to get your hands a little dirty.

  3. Trust That You’re Worth the Risk. This one’s simple but bears repeating: you are worth taking the leap, whether it’s submitting an essay or asking someone out. Trust yourself—even if the butterflies in your stomach feel less fluttery and more like tiny tornadoes.

Full Circle Moments

Twenty years later, I’m still chasing that feeling: the thrill of sharing my voice with the world, the joy of connecting with strangers who see themselves in my words. If you’re waiting for your first byline—or your first big leap in love—know this: it won’t be perfect, but it will be yours.

And Dean? He’s a middle school gym teacher now, happily married to someone who probably knows the difference between a canoe paddle and an oar. I still think about that summer sometimes, not as my greatest love story, but as the first one I ever felt brave enough to write down. Turns out, that’s where the magic begins—not in the flawless execution, but in the messy, glorious courage to try.