Rea always wanted to be a novelist.
When she was little, her nose was either stuffed in a book, sniffing paper, absorbing words, or letting her imagination wander. If not reading, she was writing. In journals. In notebooks. In diaries. On walls. In the sand. On legal pads. On typewriters. With quills.
In college, she majored in fiction writing and somehow fell into nonfiction and personal training. Her dreams of sitting in a writer’s haven on the water, wrapped in a sweater, penning her stories, was swapped for health and wellness gigs and her first fractured steps into the important world of the Author Platform (aka social media).
After four nonfiction books were published, countless magazine and newspaper articles written, editing jobs taken, content management contracts executed, a gym co-owned, and certifications sought, she realized she was hustling for the wrong type of writing.
So, she quit.
She gave herself a window to write a novel. Eight weeks, she told herself. Eight weeks to change everything.
Never one to back down from a challenge, she wrote her novel in just a month.
The rest went something like this: Secure a phenomenal agent, join a writer’s group, bear witness to the magic of self-belief as the book got into a bidding war and landed her a two-book deal with St. Martin’s Press.
Now, when asked what she does, she says the following: I’m a motherfucking writer.
Rea is a novelist. She writes books. And swears. And drinks lots of coffee. And has a daughter. And a dreamy husband. And still manages to find the magic in books.
She hopes you will put down the phone and pick up a book (preferably hers when it hits the shelves). And find the joy in reading.
Because there’s nothing quite like the power of words...