I once thought writing a book might be a simple way to plant an evergreen product — like putting a tree in the ground that would quietly bear fruit year after year. Maybe it would sell a copy a day. That seemed reasonable enough.
But life and reality are never quite as clean as the stories in my head.
I spent over a week writing this 30+ page guide, feeling both satisfaction and a tinge of anxiety. Would anyone buy it? Was it worth the time? Or was it simply a luxury, something I could afford to do because I had the space to try?
Then I looked at my garden.
My pomegranate tree, after six years, still hasn’t borne fruit. It stands there, healthy but quiet — perhaps too young, or not quite in the right spot, or simply on its own slow timeline.
My peach trees, catching more sun, give me a few dozen fruits on one and hundreds on another.
My apricot manages a modest harvest even with less sun.
And I saw it so clearly:
This book is like my pomegranate tree.
It may take years before it truly fruits.
It might need more “sunlight” — more sharing, more readers, more patience.
But it is rooted. It exists. It can grow.
I also realized that writing a book itself isn’t so hard, at least once focused. I finished it in about a week.
The harder part is the waiting — the patience, the nurturing, the willingness to invest in something whose harvest might come slowly or in surprising ways.
And yet, I’m grateful.
I’m glad I had the freedom to create something that could last.
I have a platform, a place to share it.
I have support, even from myself, to explore ideas and make them real.
This is life, not imaginary thinking.
The gap is closed.
I thought about being an author — now I am one.
The dream was neat, perfect, maybe even a bit naive. The reality is slower, messier, more uncertain.
But also far more satisfying.
Because it’s real.
If you enjoyed this reflection and are curious about my book, you’re warmly invited to explore it. I hope it brings you insight and encouragement on your own journey.
Bravo