The Story I'm Telling Myself This Year (And Why It Matters)

I've done a handful of interviews over the past few months (like this one with Formidable Woman), and there's a question that comes up every time: "What's next for you?"

My answer is immediate. Automatic, even. "I'm working on Our Time, the final book in the Maddie and Nate trilogy. It follows the youngest versions of them, when they meet in their twenties."

It's a good answer. It's true. It's specific and achievable.

But after the third or fourth time saying it, something shifted. I caught myself wondering: is that really what's next for me? Or is that just the safe answer? The one I know I can deliver on?

Should I be telling myself a bigger story?

The Many Names for One Truth

It's trendy to talk about manifestation and visualization, about speaking your dreams into existence. We used to call it "fake it till you make it." Psychologists call it a self-fulfilling prophecy. Educators talk about growth mindset.

Different words, different generations, same underlying truth: the story we tell ourselves about what's possible actually shapes what becomes possible.

As a scientist, my first instinct with anything that sounds like magical thinking is skepticism. When someone starts talking about manifesting their dream life, I want to see the data. Show me why this works beyond wishful thinking.

But here's what I know from that background: how you frame a problem determines which solutions you can see. The hypothesis you start with guides where you look for answers. In research, if you're only looking for confirmation of what you already believe, that's all you'll find. But if you frame your question differently, if you allow for possibilities you hadn't considered, suddenly you're looking in new places. Finding different answers.

The story you tell yourself about what you're doing changes what you're capable of discovering.

It's not magic. It's mechanism.

Think about Schrödinger's cat - that thought experiment where the cat in the box exists in multiple states simultaneously until someone opens the box and observes it. Your story works the same way. Multiple futures exist as possibilities until you commit to a particular narrative. The moment you tell yourself, "I'm just finishing this trilogy," you've opened the box. You've collapsed all those other potential timelines into one specific path. But what if you kept the box closed a little longer? What if you allowed yourself to exist in multiple possible futures before choosing which story to live into?

The Moment I Realized I'd Been Thinking Too Small

I can see how it started. From the beginning, I was uncomfortable calling myself an author. I wasn't thinking about building a body of work or changing conversations about romance. I was thinking: "can I even write one novel? Do I have the right to call myself a writer?"

So, I didn't spend time dwelling on it – I fearlessly put my head down and focused on answering it.

I published Out of Time. Then Next Time. I started winning awards. Getting reviews. Building a readership. All of these wonderful, validating things happened - things that proved yes, I could write a novel. Yes, I could call myself a writer.

But somewhere in achieving that goal, I stopped asking what else might be possible. The story became about execution instead of expansion. About finishing what I started instead of imagining what comes after.

"I'm finishing this trilogy" is manageable. Concrete. Safe.

"I'm an author building a body of work that changes how people think about love, time, and second chances" feels grandiose to say out loud.

Both are true. But one opens doors I can't even see yet, and one just gets me to a finish line I've already drawn.

What the Characters Know That I'm Still Learning

I think about Maddie and Nate across their three timelines. In each one, circumstances are wildly different. They meet as seniors navigating late-life choices, as mid-career professionals with commitments and responsibilities, and as young adults just starting out. Different ages, careers, life situations. Different mistakes made or not yet made. Different versions of themselves.

But the narrative of their connection transcends all of that. In every timeline, against every odd, they find each other. Not because the circumstances are right, but because some stories are bigger than the individual moments they happen in.

I wrote that. I believe it about them.

So why am I having such a hard time believing it about myself?

What if my story is bigger than "finish the trilogy"? What if there's a version where I'm not just completing this series, but building something that lasts? Creating work that opens doors for other writers who want to push boundaries? Proving that thoughtful speculative romance deserves space in literary conversations?

That story feels too big to claim right now. But maybe that's exactly why I need to start telling it.

The Question I'm Sitting With

I don't have the answer yet. I'm genuinely sitting with the question.

But I'm paying attention now to the difference between the story I'm telling myself out of habit and the story I might tell myself if I weren't quite so worried about whether I could pull it off.

I'm noticing when I make myself smaller in conversation. When I downplay what I'm working toward. When I give the safe answer instead of the bold one.

And I'm starting to wonder: what would happen if I told the bigger story? Not with arrogance or certainty, but with the same kind of audacious hope I had before I published my first book?

What becomes possible when you expand the narrative you're living in?

Your Turn

So, here's what I'm wondering about you: What's your automatic answer when someone asks what's next?

Is it the whole story, or just the safe part?

What would the bigger version sound like? The one that feels almost embarrassing to say out loud because it sounds too ambitious, too unlikely, too much?

What if that's actually the story worth telling yourself?

I don't know where this exploration will take me. But I know that the questions we ask ourselves matter as much as the answers we find. And right now, I'm choosing to ask bigger questions.

I'd love to hear what story you're telling yourself this year. Reply and let me know. I read every message.

—Jacqueline