“Don’t forget the clams.” That was the last thing my mother said to me as I walked out the door on the morning my first piece was published. Not exactly the poetic segue into greatness you might imagine, but when you’re the child of Nantucket innkeepers, the mundane often mixes with the momentous. That day, greatness—and by greatness, I mean a 300-word story about a lost pocket watch found buried in a sand dune—had to share space with an errand to pick up seafood for the evening’s chowder.

But let’s back up for a moment.

Writing Roots: From Whaling Logs to Word Docs

My love for writing didn’t start with any burning desire to be a “published author.” It started, as many stories do, with a bout of childhood boredom. Growing up on an island where winter stretches longer than it should, I quickly learned to entertain myself by rifling through the attic of our family’s inn. Amid the mothball-scented chaos of old hooks, sea charts, and my grandmother’s entirely too big-for-her-knitting-ambitions yarn stash, I stumbled upon my first love: whaling logs.

Detailed and tragic, hopeful and mundane—those leather-bound books were my first glimpse of storytelling’s capacity to blend observation with emotion. I started mimicking them myself, penning little entries about my adventures along Nantucket’s coast. “Spotted gull eating abandoned bagel,” one particularly riveting entry declared. Not Pulitzer-worthy, I’ll admit, but everybody starts somewhere.

Fast-forward to college, where I left the attic behind for Harvard libraries. I spent my time weaving research papers out of grainy archival photos and forgotten maritime texts. But, like so many others in their early twenties, I lacked the confidence to say, “Yeah, I want to make writing my thing.” Instead, I nodded along when people suggested sensible career paths like consulting. Spoiler alert: I am not cut out for spreadsheets.

The Call to Adventure (Or, at Least, to the Local Newspaper)

The catalyst for my first byline wasn’t glamorous. There was no editor in a smoke-filled newsroom discovering my hidden brilliance. It was more of a desperate act of courage on my part, fueled by three factors:
1. A wannabe-earnest desire to chronicle tiny Nantucket stories that felt big to me.
2. An inability to focus on anything practical after thoroughly embarrassing myself on a date.
3. My best friend, Sophie, bribing me with a scone if I submitted something.

Here’s the thing about island dating: If it goes wrong, the fallout is palpable. See, matching with someone in a small town is like ordering from a limited menu. There are no anonymous diners here; the chef probably went to high school with your mom. So, when my utterly charming dinner companion discovered midway through appetizers that I’d misremembered his favorite baseball team (Mets, not Sox—an apparently unforgivable faux pas), things took an awkward nosedive. By the following morning, word had spread faster than high tide.

I did what any self-respecting word nerd would: I buried myself in writing. Heavy with misplaced romantic angst, I wrote a piece about a shipwreck scavenger who’d unearthed that aforementioned pocket watch in his yard. One metaphor-filled paragraph later, I found myself typing this line—an obvious but satisfying sentiment: “Some losses, it turns out, are simply buried treasure waiting to be rediscovered.” Tacky, yes. Earnest, absolutely.

The Actual Publishing (And Preposterous Nerves)

When the local paper emailed me back saying they’d like to run the story in their weekend edition, I reacted like Beyoncé had personally invited me to brunch. I mean, technically it was the Lifestyle section of the Nantucket Current, but for me, it may as well have been the New York Times. The editor even included a polite note about how my piece’s “nostalgic tone” really captured “island life’s slower rhythms.” I’ve never seen a greater compliment.

Then, the dread set in. Because while the world of dating may teach you resilience (or, at least, how to laugh off ghosting), it also trains you to fear rejection. What if no one liked it? Or worse—what if people did like it and that meant I’d have to keep writing things people liked? Classic overthinking.

Flirting with the Written Word

Funny thing about publishing your first story: It feels like a first date. The butterflies, the urge to overanalyze, and the sheer awkwardness of waiting for a verdict—it all tracks. I spent that inaugural publishing week oscillating between nervous pride and the kind of self-doubt that can only be remedied by a bowl of clam chowder. (It’s medicinal for New Englanders, trust me.) But you know what’s beautiful about that nerve-wracking wait? The reminder that even when you feel exposed, what you’ve created might resonate for someone else.

Readers wrote in kind notes, sharing their own versions of “lost-watches-found.” Strangers in line at the market brought up my article, including one woman who went on to tell me she hadn’t heard the word “seafaring” outside of a crossword clue in years but loved that I used it. That blend of isolation and connection—of attempting something, not knowing if it’ll matter, and finding out it does—felt deeply human.

Lessons from the Lighthouse (AKA What I’ve Learned)

If my first byline taught me anything, it’s this: Don’t underestimate little stories. Not in writing, and definitely not in life. That piece didn’t transform Nantucket’s history or ripple beyond a few kind readers, but it confirmed something we all secretly hope is true: Sharing a piece of yourself matters. It isn’t always easy—vulnerability rarely is—but it ultimately fosters connection.

So, in the spirit of cheesy seabound metaphors (you’ve stuck with me this long, you had to know this was coming), think of writing—or any creative act—as lighthouse-building. The effort might feel isolated, the wind relentless, but somewhere out there is a ship—or a soul—grateful for your glow.

My Advice for First-Timers

If you, like I once did, have a story to share but fear it won’t land, here are a few pointers for starting out:

  • Write from the heart—but edit with intention. Sentimentality is lovely, but focus and polish make it shareable.
  • Remember no one nails the perfect piece on their first try. First drafts are like blind dates: full of potential but a little messy.
  • Embrace the quiet moments. Stories often blossom out of life’s smallest details.
  • And, above all, don’t forget the clams. Or whatever equivalent keeps you tethered to real life when your brain spirals into overthinking mode. Sometimes, the grounding stuff is what leads you home.

If I’m lucky, maybe a few of you reading this are teetering on the edge of your own creative bravery. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll have a first byline of your own soon. Until then, take heart: Even the Mets fans of the world get second chances.