There’s something that happens the first time you see your name in print, and I’m not talking about your high school yearbook where they misspelled it or that summer camp newsletter where they listed you as the “Most Likely to Quietly Read a Book at a Party.” No, I mean your real name, in glossy, ink-smelling print, attached to words you carefully, painstakingly wrote. It’s a high unlike any other. The moment I held that issue of Santa Fe Stories in my sweaty hands, I felt like a poet stumbling out of the desert onto a Broadway stage. Euphoric, dazed, and—if I’m honest—a little overwhelmed.

But let me rewind. That first byline, much like the start of a new relationship, was not as glamorous as I’d imagined. It was awkward, uncertain, and littered with doubts. And yet, when it finally happened, it felt like magic—like hearing someone laugh at your joke when you weren’t sure it would land.

Hitting Submit: The Romance of Risk

It all started with a nerve-wracking email. Somewhere between a near-panic over typos and an existential crisis at 2 a.m. (prompted by the self-imposed question, “Who am I to write anything, ever?”), I decided to pitch a profile to Santa Fe Stories, a local arts magazine my parents subscribed to. It was a modest piece—an interview with a ceramist whose vibrant glazes reminded me of those technicolor sunsets Santa Fe seems to conjure on its best days. I’d seen his work at a pop-up fair, and something about his approach—traditional, yet fresh—felt worth exploring.

Sending that pitch was like sending a first text to a crush you're pretty sure is out of your league. Did I overthink it? Of course. Did I rephrase my opening line seventy times? Without a doubt. Did I almost talk myself out of hitting send? Absolutely. But like a romantic confession delivered over way-too-late coffee, I decided it was better to try and fail than slowly implode from the what-ifs.

Days passed. When the editor finally replied with a courteous “We like it—how soon can you start?” my brain short-circuited. Was this my promposal moment? I stared at the email like it was a love letter I’d never expected to receive.

The Interview: Butterflies and Blank Pages

Interviewing the artist I’d pitched wasn’t entirely unlike a first date. I prepped like a lunatic: careful lists of questions, multiple backups in case he gave only one-word answers, an overthought outfit (something “creative but serious”). I arrived at his studio armed with my notepad, recorder, and the kind of stress-level only slightly below an air traffic controller’s. The studio itself—a chaos of molds, buckets of glaze, and hauntingly beautiful half-finished pots—looked decidedly cooler than my outfit. I spent the first ten minutes complimenting his work and nervously laughing at everything even remotely funny.

Eventually, the jitters subsided. He started telling me about his process with an earnest, quiet pride I recognized from my parents when they spoke about their gallery. His words were like brushstrokes, painting the larger picture of his life, and before I knew it, the conversation flowed. I leaned in, asked better questions, and felt that addictive spark of human connection. By the end, I realized something: the scariest part—starting—was already over.

Drafting the Words: The Editing Tango

Have you ever tried writing a love letter late at night? One of the ones where you swing wildly from poetic genius to “What am I even saying?” That’s what drafting this profile felt like. First came the rush—layering vibrant metaphors about his clay-covered hands, his restless creativity, and his ability to weave centuries-old traditions into something unmistakably modern. But soon, I hit the wall every writer fears: the dizzying realization that what’s on the page doesn’t feel as alive as the moment you’re trying to capture.

The first pass read more like an over-earnest art history textbook than a story. The second was so pared down even I couldn’t feel it. Somewhere around midnight on the third night, I found the sweet spot. It was my voice—part reverent, part playful. I added a touch of humor about his “artist’s superstitions” (always firing his kiln under a full moon) while honoring how much heart he poured into his work. The profile started to hum. It felt real.

Seeing My Words in Print: The Heartbeat Pause

When the issue finally hit newsstands, I did the one thing every person with their first byline does: I ran, not walked, to the nearest magazine rack. Standing at that checkout aisle, flipping through glossy pages until I landed on mine, was a moment that deserves its own soundtrack. Something cinematic, like the opening chords of Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” or the swelling crescendo of every great rom-com score.

My name. My words. Immortalized on a page that somebody, somewhere, might read. I walked home with three copies hugged to my chest, beaming the kind of pride usually reserved for finishing a marathon or nailing karaoke on your first try.

But here’s the thing: the joy wasn’t just about the glossy pages or even the byline itself. It was about what it represented—the leap, the effort, the hours spent doubting only to discover I had something worth saying. Like a great relationship, seeing that first article in print didn’t fix all my insecurities overnight. But it reminded me that showing up, imperfections and all, is worth the risk.

Lessons from That First Byline

So what did that first byline teach me? Honestly, a lot of the same lessons I’ve learned from dating (and let’s be real, relationships). Humor me—here’s a little cross-comparison for the romantics at heart:

  1. Say Yes Before You Feel Ready
    Sending that pitch felt premature, like confessing your feelings when you’re not sure they’re reciprocated. But sometimes the magic happens when you jump before you’re ready—it’s in the asking, not the certainty.

  2. Connection Beats Perfection
    Just as the artist’s hands weren’t spotless while creating his best pieces, neither was my profile flawless. What made it work was the honesty—the recognition of his story as a messy, human, inspiring process.

  3. Celebrate the Small Wins
    That profile wasn’t an international bestseller, but it was mine. There’s something transformational about celebrating your successes, however small. It’s a bit like clinking glasses after a first date that went surprisingly well. Cheers to that!

The First Step is the Hardest—But Worth It

Whether it’s writing your first big story, starting a new job, or opening your heart to someone new, the first time always feels monumental. And that’s the point—it is monumental. But here’s the thing: all those jitters, doubts, and restless nights ultimately lead to growth. That first byline was my proof that the scariest leaps tend to lead you somewhere pretty great.

So if you’re staring at your own metaphorical blank page, wondering, “Can I do this?” let me save you some suspense: the answer is yes. Send the text. Pitch the story. Take the risk. One day, you’ll look back and realize that what started as a shaky, unsure moment helped build the bridge to wherever you’re meant to be. Trust me—it’ll be worth it.