From Scribbled Notes to 300 Readers: My First Seven Months as a Disabled Author

When I began the Towans series a few years ago, it did not start with a book cover or a publishing plan. It began with a beautiful notebook that was given to me as a present. Inside it, I scribbled ideas inspired by the setting here in Cornwall. Memories of holidays. The sound of wind across the dunes. Characters forming quietly in my head long before they had names. Inspiration drawn from the wild and beautiful beaches of Hayle. It was never meant to be a business plan. It was simply a need to get the thoughts out of my head and onto paper. 🌊

At the time, life had shifted in ways I had not expected. Being diagnosed with a chronic illness and disability changed the rhythm of everything. Plans that once felt straightforward suddenly needed adjusting. Energy could no longer be taken for granted. There were days that felt smaller than they used to. Days when I had to measure what I could give.

Writing became something steady in the middle of that uncertainty. Something I could hold onto.

It did not require me to explain myself. It did not demand that I be well or strong or certain. It simply asked me to show up on the page. On days when my body felt unpredictable, the notebook did not. On days when I felt frustrated by limitations, imagination remained wide open.

I did not sit down thinking about building a series. I simply wrote because the world of the Towans felt alive to me. The shifting dunes, the steady tides, the sense of place and belonging. Looking back now, I can see that I was writing about resilience long before I used that word for myself.

Seven months ago, in July 2025, I gathered those words together and pressed publish. I remember staring at the screen afterwards and wondering whether anyone would ever read them. Whether anyone would connect with what I had written. 🤍

There is a particular vulnerability in publishing something that was born in private. Especially when so much of it was written during a season of change.

Seven months later, over three hundred readers have stepped into that world.

They have met Iris, Rafi and Moss the dog. 🐾 They have walked those dunes with us. They have sent thoughtful messages and left generous reviews. Some have quietly turned the final page and simply asked what happens next.

That question led to Book Two in October. And again, readers returned to the shoreline with me. They invested in these characters. They cared about their futures. Which is how Book Three has begun to take shape, with those characters growing further than I ever imagined possible.

None of it has been dramatic. There have been no fireworks or overnight moments.

What there has been is steady, honest growth.

Being a disabled author means I work differently. It means I pace myself. It means some days are slower than others. It means celebrating progress that might look small from the outside but feels significant on the inside. It means understanding that creativity does not disappear when health changes. If anything, it deepens.

Writing has not erased illness. It has not fixed everything. But it has given me something invaluable. Agency. Purpose. A way to shape my own narrative rather than feeling defined by circumstance.

Three hundred readers may not look extraordinary in the world of publishing.

But from those first scribbled notes in a notebook to someone else’s bedside table, it feels extraordinary to me. ✨

Sometimes, as authors, and especially as authors navigating chronic illness or disability, we need to pause and recognise that quiet growth matters. That slow progress is still progress. That resilience often looks like simply continuing.

I am still writing. Still learning. Still completely in love with the place where it all began.

And I am deeply grateful to the readers who have chosen to walk this journey with me.

Thank you for being part of it. 🤍🌊