What if the one person who could stop you . . . can’t anymore?

New here? You may want to start at the very beginning . . .

Because it turns out I’m writing a book disguised as a literary business model, disguised as a memoir unfolding in real time.

Between My Sheets is a living memoir of ReWriting a word-life one Friday at a time.

And if you’re reading this because I finally shared . . .
Hi there. This is where I’ve been.

Sink into this Friday moment—roughly an 11-minute read.

Welcome, you.

A lifequake.

That’s the only word for this week. The ground didn’t wobble—it moved. Clean out from under me.

So I took the week off. Not to rest. To survive it.

That’s a promise broken.

And promises matter. Trust matters. And I matter.

This is the first one I’ve let myself off the hook for.

Last week, the promise I kept was to me.

I had to sit with myself.

And something utterly profound happened.

I’ve spent nearly 30 years writing other people’s stories. Sharing their truth while I got to do what I do so well—remain hidden, in the shadows, just out of sight.

I’ve loved it.

I think because it’s so much more than writing. See, when I write for you, I see you.

Deeply.

When someone is in front of me, talking, telling me their story—I see the truth.

I see them—fully.

Not the side they present to the world.
Not the one they might be glamming up for me.

I see between the stories, between the words, between the surface level half-truths.

And once a person realizes they are truly seen, utterly exposed, we begin the writing process.

It’s always been a ReWrite.

Their ReWrite.

And that’s why the books I wrote resonated with so many.

The vulnerable truth is more powerful than any polished version could ever be.

And the reason I never wrote books for politicians.

I met with one once. But she was so deeply rooted in the story of her that to face the truth of she would have meant ending the career she’d spent decades building.

Living a deep lie can do that to a person.

It can make them sick, exhausted, depleted.

I’ve been living one for fifteen years . . .

One I share now because it’s the tangled sheets around my legs—wound all the way up to my throat—that keep me down.

That keep me quiet.

That keep me from sharing, from shining bright.

And in the current wreckage, I realize I no longer can pretend it isn’t slowly killing me.

Like the former ghost(writer), I have a whole other secret side.

Alongside the writing, the teaching, the raising of my husband’s two children for several years each, I’ve also had a full time job.

I’ve been in the role of administrator for a property management company my husband and I own.

Tenants. Termites. Toilets.

The three headache-generating “T”s.

Instead of pushing Between My Sheets pages all the time, and focusing on what I do best . . . ReWriting people’s stories—or just plain writing—

I’ve been pushing spreadsheets, lease agreements, bills and invoices around a digital desk.

So. Not. Me.

Dealing with property, taxes, buildings, leases, contractors, and renovations.

So not my circus. And it is a circus.

I could never explain it to him—The Frenchman—why a thing I was capable of doing felt like drowning.

All that paperwork, quietly draining the life out of me.

I mean, how dramatic, right?

But maybe you can relate, Lovely Reader.

I’d sit down to the admin duties and feel the light in me go dim.

Then quietly—over weeks, years, a decade—fully fade out.

For the longest time, I thought something was wrong with me.

But now, in the middle of this lifequake, I know nothing was wrong with me.

I was never built to maintain, to manage. I’m built to transmit, to write.

Which is why I can no longer do the thing I’ve been doing on the side now for nearly fifteen years.

In the name of love and partnership and being responsible—I donned a hat that simply doesn’t fit.

One that suddenly weighs a ton.

A hat that, once donned, dimmed my light to the point of nothingness time and time again.

No wonder sickness followed me like a lost puppy.
No wonder I have a start-stop pattern.
No wonder my energy waned.

And now, facing a huge loss of something we’ve spent more than a decade building—that lifequake—I am realizing something utterly profound.

The loss is showing me what I am actually built for and is finally giving me permission to let the rest go.

Which is oddly freeing.

And such a juxtaposition to the financial hit which should have taken me to my knees.

Not in prayer but in utter horror. Okay maybe both . . .

But it didn’t. It’s not.

Instead, I’m not in the rubble alone. The Frenchman is in it with me.

And he doesn’t blame me. I don’t blame him.

We’re standing together, hand-in-hand, surrounded by the wreckage of something enormous and not turning on each other.

Instead, we’re turning to each other and choosing us, again, without a single word of if only you had . . .

At any other point in my life I would have said a love like that would be a lie.

Turns out it’s as good as the French kiss kind of steamy, hot love—if not better.

Here’s what I’m learning about myself through my own ReWrite—
and through what should be a devastating loss.

I’m supported. So supported.

And I know what it’s like to not be. Or to believe I was not.

There was a moment in time when I was called a liar when actually I told the absolute truth.

And the one calling me that—she was supposed to be the one to protect me, to support me, but instead she turned on me.

When all I was doing was trying to help her, protect her.

Yet, it’s a mother’s job to protect her child, is it not?

I want to be careful here as this isn’t a tell-all and she’s not a witch in black swinging a villain’s broom.

She’s a woman who was living her life the best she knew how.

And I was a child shaped by what she said.

So I did what a child does when the truth gets her called a liar. I stopped offering mine.

Instead, I grew up and published under pseudonyms—in the proverbial dark.

I went and found a thousand other truths to tell instead.

Safer ones. Other people’s.

Because if their story got questioned, got rejected, got called a lie—it wasn’t mine on the table again.

Thirty years of ghostwriting, Lovely Reader, and I thought it was a career.

Instead, I’m finally calling it what it is . . . was.

A perfect hiding place.

And now, as I ReWrite my stories . . . I’m realizing I’ve been dimming in a different way.

I’ve cracked the front door open and allowed people in—quietly.

So quietly, so toned down that a sailing ship would never see my light shining nor hear my too-soft call.

I have been bracing for a knock that isn’t coming.

Like maybe I was bracing for The Frenchman to blame me for this lifequake loss.

Like maybe I’ve imagined her at every gate, at every turn, ready to call me that word again—liar.

She isn’t.

But even if she did show up, does it even matter?

Am I really willing to live another moment of my life dimming my light because of a word she uttered some forty-odd years ago?

I’m letting her and that story go—finally.

Not finally as in it took you long enough, Jill.

Finally as in—I’m ready. It’s time. And it feels safe to let her and that tall tale go.

Being seen doesn’t have to feel dangerous, instill fear.

Sharing doesn’t mean I’ll be branded a liar once again.

I know I’m not alone in holding onto a story that no longer suits me, fits, perhaps never even belonged to me.

I’ve watched the realization hit each and every soul I have written a book for.

That moment of letting go, of transformation, of their ReWrite rewiring their very life.

This is my ReWrite.

This is the ReWrite. Of her.
This is the BeComing. Of me.

I have nothing to fear, nothing to lose by allowing my light to shine bright.

In fact, I have so much to gain that even in the midst of the rubble, the loss, the mess, I’m smiling wide.

And swinging my front door wide.

Starting with me sharing Between My Sheets today with the list of people who want to hear from me and have not.

Which fires me up.

Almost as much as Woolley Lamb Chop has been fired up these last two weeks. Her voice is fully tuned to the highest volume.

Her range from high-pitched Maah screaming, when I’m out of sight, to disgruntled low-notes when I put her in her pen is somewhat amusing.

It would be more so if she could lower the volume a notch or two.

Who knew I’d become her beacon of Maah light.

Right now I’m simply grateful she’s on her doggy bed, sound asleep, just on the other side of the glass door.

Oh yeah, she’s no longer allowed in the house. Not sure if I ever shared that she received her eviction notice a few weeks back.

It was an adjustment. For both of us. Hence the raised urgency in her tone when she loses sight of me.

I was worried she’d go hoarse again but she hasn’t.

A thought lingered as I watched over her.

There is something so powerful in being seen, being witnessed.

That’s what happened to me this week.

I was witnessed.

And it reminded me that witnessing others is what I’ve naturally been doing for more than thirty years.

Naturally.

I give people back the relationship with their own words that the world took from them.

I am a voice restorer.

Just Jill “no longer dimmable” Stevens

💜

P.S. If any of this stirred something—if you want to be seen, witnessed, ready for your own ReWrite—Flip the Script on You is where it starts. Right here.

A Sneak Peek

The Balance Sheet

Because the numbers tell a story too.

This week, there are no big numbers to share, although sales did come in while I was in the thick of reading a 63-page lease.

My focus was mainly on the other business—hence my long and firmly held belief that this business requires a humming machine in the background.

A build it once and allow it to go-go-go.

Meaning sell. Like those two audios did and still do.

I didn’t launch. I didn’t actively sell. I barely worked on my words.

However, I did write every day before first light because that’s just what I do.

And, I opened the front door on my website.

Next, I’ll start to promote this version everywhere else online.

So even though I took a week off and had a lifequake—I did something important.

I opened the front door.

I pressed publish on this episode.

I shared both.

You can’t put a dollar figure on any of that but I’d say it’s priceless.

But here’s the quiet-tally that got me brave enough to press it:

Week after week, the same quiet story.
Five-figure weeks.
311 orders in 48 hours.
Then 547—and I never fully shared.
121 copies sold in a week, while my body said rest.

And this week?

The front door opened. The beacon no longer dims.

While I rested, 72 testimonials rolled in. Automatically. The machine humming while I had my lifequake.

I’d call that a win.

Every one of those numbers happened while I was dimmed…

While I was still hiding just enough to not be seen.

If that’s what the light did, turned down low . . . what happens now that it’s all the way up?

The Balance Sheet—the paid extension of Between My Sheets—
and opens next season.

Inside: the full numbers, the real systems, the deeper behind-the-scenes of building this word-business in real time. First access goes to readers who are already here.

Watch this space for details.

If you want to follow this unfolding story each Friday,
you can subscribe below.

Subscribe now

Just so you know: This is my slice of the web where hot flashes meet cold wine, neck waddles are real, and birthdays feel more like breakdowns. Step into my word-world as I ReWrite my word-life in real time.

What if the ReWrite isn’t done . . . and it’s already in motion?

New here? You may want to start at the beginning . . .

Because it turns out I’m writing a book disguised as a literary business model, disguised as a memoir unfolding in real time.

Between My Sheets is a living memoir of ReWriting a word-life one Friday at a time. This week? It was about life, not work.

Can I just say I’m glad you’re here?

Well, I am.

Sink into this Friday moment—roughly an 11-minute read.

Welcome, you.

This week, I didn’t work.

Not really.

I mean, I wrote, because that’s what I do. But my capacity to think, to finish—just no.

The tooth took me out the first half of the week.
And the jaw throbbed every time I forgot to chew on the right side.

A constant reminder to be intentional.

Then a fever followed for two long, grueling days. The good thing about those two days is I didn’t eat much, so the tooth and mouth got a much needed break.

And yet, several times I found myself waking up to pressure. The pressure of biting down hard—not grinding, just clamping.

Which is not normal for me.

So I gave in.

I let my body chill.
I let my nervous system relax.
I let the ReWriting of my word-business happen on the side.

I read a little. I slept a lot. I watched the light move across the floor.

I didn’t try to make anything happen.

And here is the part I’m still wrapping my head around—

Things happened anyway.

While I bottle fed the Woolley Lamb Chop, in between naps and let her roam free outside most of the day . . .

The front door I cracked open in Episode 11: Cracked Open and walked through in Episode 12: The UnCaging . . . stayed open.

Quietly. Without me.

This week was living proof of the exact business I have desired to create for years.

Dreaming of it while writing other people’s tales.

A smattering of one-and-done products. Offers at a variety of price ranges. An ecosystem that invites you in and encourages you to stay.

It’s not perfect.
It’s not complete.
It’s breaking a bit at times.

But it’s working.

My offers are selling and people are reading my words, sending in emails of thanks, and buying more.

In fact, I looked at stats, because I’m realizing numbers are power—not this scary thing . . .

And my repeat buyer rate is 42%.

Say what?!

I had to sit with that a hot minute because what it’s telling me is not just that money is coming in—repeat sales are coming in from the same person.

Proof positive that what I’m sharing, offering, inviting people to experience is good. So good that they are coming back for seconds . . .

42 percent of them.

The bundle—my $9 Magnetic Storytelling Method ebook plus The 11-Day Magnetic Momentum Experience—did its thing, quietly, without me lifting a finger.

121 souls walked through that doorway while I lay flat.

And the Substack welcome email I’ve been working on since Episode 8: The French Kiss—the one I restated in Episode 9: The Unruffling . . . went out.

Finally.

To nine lovely subscribers.

Yes, nine.

Because like most things, I have not shared Before First Light or Between My Sheets.

I may have emailed my list once about it . . .

But that would have been a month or two ago . . . if I even did.

This not sharing is more habitual than ritual.

And does need to end.

And will because my awareness of it is strong like the stench of soured leftovers I forgot about during my fever and had to toss.

Gross.

So the hiding ends with something I created a while back and didn’t release until now.

Now it has an earned place on my website.

Oh did I mention, I revamped that a bit the last few days I was able to semi-think.

Flip the Script on You is rather personal, vulnerable—like most things I create in this season of life.

Speaking of personal . . .

I also wrote a story.
Because that’s what I do . . .

And published it.
Because that’s my ReWrite at play.

And that’s also my downfall—being sidetracked by my own creativity .

It’s that moment when seven-other-things tap me on the shoulder.

Even though I have a set to-do-list to get through in order to accomplish what it is I actually want.

That pattern? I named it in Episode 4: Coming Undone—

I am an impulsive creator.

I create because the idea taps me on the shoulder . . . and I follow it. I don’t always finish.

Not unless someone—Becks, an editor, a deadline, a contract—is on the other side of the finish line.

And last week, in Episode 12: The UnCaging, I named what’s been hiding underneath that:

I do what I do so well . . . hide.

I called myself out.

This week—with the tooth and the fever and the body insisting on rest—I went with the creative flow over the must finish to-dos.

I didn’t push. I didn’t force. I didn’t make it wrong.

This side-step into storyland and not finishing all-the-many-things that need to get done.

The Story of Bisous—a long ago rescue—needed to be told.

A baby goat. Years ago. A story I’d been carrying since Covid.

I wrote it. I read it. I shared it.

Because with that creative flow came an idea.

An idea I’ve half played with for years.

Publicly sharing the animal rescue work I quietly do.

So not my way, which is exactly why perhaps it’s the right way.

Not endless videos.

Not social media posts—although the photos I take are stunningly gorgeous if I do say so myself.

No, an animal sanctuary publication filled with stories.

The Story of series for each and every rescue.

And instead of starting with my first—Moo Baah, I started in the messy middle—because that’s where I find myself.

So this week, as I nursed my body back to health, The JOYful Farmette was quietly born.

A quiet experimental drop.

Not yet a publication.

Just a place where more 3:33am words can find the light. Goat tales with Woolley Lamb Chop updates . . . plus a cat mention or two.

And that donkey donkey, the one I mentioned awhile back, but after a chat with my local vet who said I simply don’t have room . . . his story might show up there too.

But for now it’s a single story that might go nowhere or might be a humming machine in the background of me, bringing in readers, supporters, and even sponsors for these delightful goats.

Which feels wildly delicious.

A link to The Story of Bisous appears in the post script.

This week was about life. Not work.

About letting the body chill.

About letting the nervous system relax.

About writing a story I’d been carrying for years—not because I had to, but because the quiet finally had room to hold it.

The 121 copies sold.
The welcome email.
Flip the Script on You.
Bisous on the page.

Those happened because the rest happened.

Not the other way around.

I’m not yet a full finisher.

But I’ve started ReWriting the story that I’m not.

There’s a difference.

The first is a claim I haven’t earned.

The second is a quiet beginning—made of small, undeniable, body-flat-on-its-back evidence.

This is the ReWrite.

Of me.

Still in motion.

If you’re in a similar season, I see you.

This is the thing nobody tells you about (re)Writing a word-business—or life—in real time, Lovely Reader—

The story you finally tell isn’t the one you sat down to tell.

It’s the one that’s been waiting.

For years.
For the right week.
For the right rest.

For the body to get loud enough to make you finally—finally—stop tweaking the to-do list and just lay it down.

Sometimes the body has to insist.

This week, mine did.

And so did Kunang Kungang . . .

whose wails filled the farmette when he got his front left leg caught in a fence on Wednesday.

Kunang Kunang is Bali’s son.

Bali Bali came to me when The Frenchman was in—you guessed it—Bali.

Just a few days old, her mom had been shot dead by hunters who hadn’t seen the baby kid just feet away.

Thankfully, they did the humane thing and brought her to me.

Well, this story gets interesting because I rescue and never breed here in Goat World, but I screwed up.

But accidents happen . . . As they did when I brought a new to me rescue trio to the sanctuary.

I dubbed them The Skinny People—because they so were. Underfed, covered in lice, lacking minerals, nutrients and love.

A mother, a daughter and a son.

They were quarantined for weeks and then put with Bali Bali and OMG—Oh My Goat.

I had no idea the sick little boy was “viable”
and that sweet, baby Bali Bali was more than eager to . . .

Get down, get down.

And so they did and Bali Bali got knocked up. An accidental tween pregnancy.

And of course, she had twins—sigh.

A boy, Kunang Kunang and Kapu Kapu (Firefly and Butterfly in Indonesian).

The little girl, she’s also my little Cliffhanger—very demanding and loud.

But on Wednesday Kunang Kunang was the one screaming bloody murder when his leg ended up caught between two fence pickets.

I was home—thankfully—and racing up the hill in under thirty seconds the moment I heard his panicked cries.

Woolley hot on my heels, pushing to get into The Skinny People’s pen, but not allowed, and left to Maah-scream at me between fence posts as I locked gates and raced up to Bali’s enclosure.

After what felt like seven flights of stairs—because everything on this island is up or down with no flat surface–I saw him pulling and tugging frantically. Each movement inched his leg down, tighter and tighter into the narrower space.

Stepping behind him while his mother and sister watched—and Lamb Chop screamed uncontrollably from under the coconut tree on the other side of the fenced pen—I grabbed his thrashing body and slowly lifted him up until I could guide his leg out from between the wooden boards.

All fifty pounds of him.

His cries ended as he stood with his leg lifted off the ground—panting.

Woolley’s intensified.

I caught my breath and watched Kunang Kunang take his first wobbly steps.

Once Bali Bali and Kapu Kapu realized the little boy was okay, their attention shifted to confront this loud white creature racing back and forth just inches away.

Back hairs up all along Bali’s spine, my first order of business was to check Kunang Kunang’s leg—if he’d let me.

Corralling him gently into a holding area while Woolley wailed her separation anxiety issues at full volume, it became clear that nothing was broken, thank God.

But bruised, sore, a concern—yes.

So I shot a video on the phone that is—thankfully—forever in my pocket and sent it off to the temporary island vet.

Just 30 seconds of him attempting to put weight on it while hobbling around—more tripod than anything else—as I did a voiceover introduction of him and myself.

Wanting to get Lamb Chop out of there so the little boy could relax, I left the enclosures and made it back to the driveway with Woolley hot on my heels.

She, of course, stuck to me like glue—happy-go-lucky now that I was on solid ground with her.

Such a rapid switch from the anxiety of just moments before.

There is always something pulling me, pulling each of us, and our attention.

My focus isn’t ever interrupted by Facebook, Instagram or TikTok but by all these many creatures—some big, some small—and their daily antics, issues and needs.

Heck, I remember there was this moment in time when I was live on a group call or Facebook live, being a coach in this transformational group, when Moo Baah started whacking his horns on the back glass door.

The same door he’d walked through a few years before, just 24 hours old.

I had to apologize, get up, still live-streaming and go open the door—so he’d stop.

Because shatter the glass, he probably could have had he gotten frustrated with the door not opening for his teen goat self.

As I was saying . . . there is literally always something.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Thankfully, on this day, like on that Moo Baah day, it wasn’t a tragedy.

But I did take a moment of awareness because when that fence went up, I questioned it and the spacing of those pickets.

I knew they’d be a problem, especially given the tempting banana trees growing low hanging fruit just on the other side.

Hot damn, ignoring my intuition always comes with a price.

Turns out the video was enough for the temp vet to simply meet me at the clinic and provide oral—because I refuse to give shots—meds for Kunang Kunang’s comfort.

Chit-chatting with this new-to-me woman, I learned just how busy she’s been with pets and—more importantly—with the possible relocation of . . . guess who?!

Donkey Donkey.

The original island vet and friend—now on sick leave herself, bless her—told me a while ago that I don’t have enough land for him.

“Donkeys need space. And a friend. And the proper terrain.”

I knew this.

I just didn’t want to know it.

I didn’t want Donkey Donkey to be tied, alone, without shelter . . .

And turns out the owner doesn’t want that either. So the solution is getting him on a boat to St Maarten where there is a farm who will take him.

The temp vet shared this with me while packaging meds and explaining the logistics were an absolute nightmare.

No trailer for said Donkey Donkey to get to the harbor.
No boat willing to take him.

We only have one ferry boat.

What’s needed to get him on the boat?
Unknown.

What’s needed once he arrives?
Also unknown.

She was a bit overwhelmed to say the least.

So maybe—fingers crossed, Lovely Reader, please cross yours too—Donkey Donkey gets on a boat and goes to live his best life ever.

With land, shelter, love and another donkey donkey to lean against.

I won’t rescue him.

That’s the hard, honest truth.

But I will love him from this side of the water.

And I will trust that the right people are showing up for him over there.

Back at the farmette, night officially darkening the pens, I distributed oral pain meds for the little boy and attached wooden boards to the fence posts to make it more secure against raised hooves.

All with a flashlight in my mouth wondering yet again why I’ve never broken down and bought a headlamp gismo.

I took time for a ton of love rubs as the moon rose over the ocean to grant me a wink of soft light.

I was so ready to sink into an epsom salt bath—finally—and call it a day . . .

But as I walked down the drive in the dark, glad Woolley was quietly tucked into her triangle pen for the night . . .

I noticed headlights up high.

A sight I’d never before seen.

The upper mountain road—visible—from my house, my porch, my bathtub.

What-the-bloody-fuc—

The Above-Me Neighbors, before they left, cut trees. Not just their trees.

They cut my trees, on my land.

In the dark of night I could see cars passing by where—never in my three years living here—had that sight been possible.

So now—the road can see my bathtub.

And the bathtub can see the road.

Sigh.

So I did the next best thing—I cracked open a bottle of white and poured myself a generous glass of vino.

And thought about building a screen . . .

Or breaking down and hanging up a gaudy shower curtain just for the weekend.

And I’m totally replanting those property line trees—fast.

But none of that will happen between now and Wednesday.

Dentist Round Two.

Happily and sigh—not excited about going at all.

The flight is booked.
The crown is pending.
Better self-care is ongoing.

Maybe you can relate, Lovely Reader.

Maybe your body whispered rest this week and you almost didn’t listen.

Maybe something you’ve been carrying for years made it onto a page this week, quietly, without fanfare.

Maybe the thing you thought wouldn’t move, moved—while you weren’t looking.

Maybe a loop you’ve been carrying for weeks just—closed.

Maybe you’re not yet a finisher.

But you’ve started ReWriting the story that you’re not.

I see you. I hear you. I am you.

Pick rest.

Pick the unfinished thing that nags at you now.

Pick the version of you who finishes—not because she has to, but because she can.

That’s the whole game right now.

And me?

I’m not yet a finisher.

But this week, I started ReWriting that story with kindness and empathy.

It feels good to finally, gently, be ReWriting my way home.

Until next Friday, Lovely Reader.

Just Jill “mid-ReWrite, mid-finishing” Stevens

💜

P.S. The Story of Bisous lives on The JOYful Farmette—a little experimental Substack space for all the Goat Tales and more. Tissues optional for this one.

P.P.S. Flip the Script on You—is a free visual experience you may want to check out. It leads to a deeper ReWrite, if that’s of interest. The link will be shared early this week.

P.P.P.S. And that deeper ReWrite—because so many of us need one—will soon lead to The JOYful ReWrite, a path to working with me directly on a ReWrite of your own.

A Sneak Peek

The Balance Sheet

Because the numbers tell a story too.

This week I sold 121 copies of a bundle—my $9 Magnetic Storytelling Method ebook plus The 11-Day Magnetic Momentum Experience.

With a fever.
With a cracked tooth.
With no email blast, no social push, no “launch.”

Plus, the slightly open front door managed to pull in an additional $3,733.

Not too shabby.

All while I was flat on my back most of the week.

Hot damn.

And looking at numbers in between naps, I saw that another audio program I have called the “Letting Go Meditation” has grossed $11,150 with minimal sharing during its two year lifetime.

Double hot damn.

Imagine if I shared. And shared again.

And allowed all everything I create with prolific ease to hum and run in the background as I enJOY my life.

Sounds sweet—and doable.

The full math—plus Confessions of a Ghost(writer), Agent Talks, and the back-room systems—is what The Balance Sheet itself will hold.

And is coming soon.

Along with a flung wide open path into my word-world.

No more hiding.

The Balance Sheet—the paid extension of Between My Sheets—opens soon. Inside: the full numbers, the real systems, the deeper behind-the-scenes of (re)building this word-business in real time. Plus extra word-bonuses I’m writing—Confessions of a Ghost(writer) and Agent Talks to name a few. First access goes to readers who are already here.

Watch this space.

If you want to follow this unfolding story each Friday,
you can subscribe below.

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Just so you know: This is my slice of the web where hot flashes meet cold wine, neck waddles are real, and birthdays feel more like breakdowns. Step into my word-world as I ReWrite my word-life in real time—finally as myself, no longer a ghost(writer). Side effects may include tears, laughter, and definitely more JOY.

What if ReWriting a word-life starts with realizing the cage you're in isn't even comfortable?

New here? You may want to start at the beginning . . .

Because it turns out I’m writing a book disguised as a literary business model, disguised as a memoir unfolding in real time.

Between My Sheets is a living memoir of ReWriting a word-life one Friday at a time—with a Frenchman now two weeks back in Paris, a growing goat flock, a Lamb Chop with her voice (mostly) returned, and a front door that stayed quietly open all week.

Can I just say I’m glad you’re here?

Well, I am.

Now sink into this Friday moment—roughly an 11-minute read.

Welcome, you.

This week?

The tooth took more out of me than I expected.

The body said—rest.

So I did.

Hot damn, that was the whole strategy.

If I didn’t have this episode to write, I’d lay back down right now.

But here we are. Kit Kat curled on the chair—oversized, thankfully—beside me, belly exposed, fully trusting.

Lamb Chop sound asleep on her doggy bed at my feet, finally calm.

Goats fed after a chaotic few full moon nights—even though technically, the full part was only one.

And me—still upright.
Mostly.

A quiet little reminder to take amazing care of myself as I ease gently into my fifties.

Now. The honest part.

Last week, I cracked the front door open to a small slice of my email list.

This week, I managed to fix the three things that broke.

Not all at once. Not perfectly. Just one at a time—between bottle-feedings, between hoarse little Maahs, between a tooth that throbbed when I forgot to go slow and easy.

And the door . . . the door stayed open.

Quietly.

Without me pushing.

Without me posting on socials.

Without me even fully telling you it was open.

Last check?

547 orders.

Three things broke—all fixed.

That’s still a 94%-ish success rate, give or take a hot flash.

And I never fully shared.

Read that again.

547 orders. And I never even fully shared.

Instead, I tweak. I add to my to do list. I postpone flinging the doors open wide because it allows me to do what I do so well . . .

hide.

There it is.
I’m calling a spade a spade.

This is me outing myself.
Sharing my flaws.
Growing.

This is the (re)build. Scratch that.

This is the ReWrite—of me.

The uncaging of me.

Imagine if I stopped all the doing and focused more on letting people see me, read my words, experience my gifts.

That right there is my now-work.

Thursday, I flew off-island to St. Maarten for the tooth.

The mid-morning flight was a small mercy—no crack-of-dawn rush, no panicked goat-feeding sprint before sunrise.

Just a slightly civilized departure for once.

Although there was a goat incident just before I left.

Choupie unlatched the gate.

If you don’t know Choupie yet—she and Moo Baah are the smartest of my flock.

As solo babies, they watched me.
Open gates. Close gates.
And they learned.

Like Moo Baah here . . .

Solo goats are smart. They watch their humans. They learn.

Choupie waited for the right moment—thankfully when Woolley, the Lamb Chop was with me—and unlatched the bloody gate.

She got into Lamb Chop’s small pen, ate her hay, drank her water then got stuck in the small enclosed space.

Here I was walking up the hill with my faithful lamb by my side, bottle of milk in hand, when I go to open the gate and see Choupie, the intruder, in the wrong spot.

Mind you, I’m dressed for my trip and now have to open a gate, keep Woolley on the outside when she wants to rush in with me, and maneuver Choupie out of the way so I can quickly close the first gate on the poor baby.

Cue loud Maahs!

Getting Choupie back inside was easy after that, a simple opening of the inner gate and a gentle push . . . but then there was the matter of the “gate” she was able to open.

That gate is actually a small door into the baby’s house that is now part of Woolley’s space.

So before I could go anywhere, I was wedging wood and rocks against that door, to keep it closed, while also listening to Lamb Chop becoming increasingly anxious.

By the time brought her into her now-secure—I hope—and fed her, I was a hot mess.

But time was up . . . and I had to leave for the airport anyway.

So much for not chaotic and not rushing.

It’s always something in Goat World.

And then there was—what did I nickname him?

Lippy.

Yes, the friend and neighbor I said I’ll just delete you to back in Episode 6: The Opening when he threatened to subscribe to my email list.

He came to check on Lamb Chop for me while I was gone. And attempt to give bottles every three hours.

Friend. Neighbor. Now Lamb-sitter.

Look at us now.

Plot twist.

Lamb Chop was traumatized while I was gone.

She survived—but by the time I came home, she was clinging harder than ever.

Wednesday night I tried something new—because she’d just done something I couldn’t un-see. More on that in a beat.

I put her in her pen outside.
First night. Only night.
She cried most of it.

The first night in my own bed in more than a month and listened to her, unable to fall asleep because every Maah hit me like a tiny accusation.

The reason for this sudden eviction?

7pm Wednesday night I’m making her sticky milk concoction, turned my back for five seconds and she promptly peed on my rather nice sofa.

The sofa I protect at all costs.

The sofa that has been my uncomfortable bed for as long as she’s been alive.

So out she went . . . because my only option after trying to clean and salvage that sofa for an hour was my delicious king size bed.

But being gone all day Thursday and hearing her stressed cries when I came home, the softy in me gave in.

Back in the house she came, curled up on her doggy bed with a belly full of milk, she slept.

And with the sofa out of commission and not willing to risk her having access to my bed, I pushed two chairs and an ottoman together.

A sheet covering all, and me, plus a blanket and a pillow.

Makeshift. Imperfect. Not the obvious choice.

And here’s the thing.

It was more comfortable than the sofa.

More comfortable than feeling caged in on that sofa night after night for a month.

The thing I thought I needed wasn’t even comfortable.

The sofa wasn’t the answer. It was just the obvious choice.

The chair-ottoman wasn’t a compromise.

It was the actual thing, much more open and unrestrained—comfortable.

And I finally slept deeply, jaw aching a bit, but not enough to keep me awake.

Thankfully.

And then it hit me—because of course it did, because that’s how Between My Sheets works—

This is exactly what every bro-marketing voice has been doing to me for years.

PICK ONE THING.
Pick one focus.
Pick one offer.
Pick one path.
Pick one container.

The sofa.
The one container.

And I kept squishing myself onto it.

For four weeks.

Sigh.

I’ve been listening to others tell me how to be.

For nearly three decades.

Thinking I needed to.
Believing I needed permission to be.

Trying to fit who I am into someone else’s way of being.
Into their container.

Except for when I write . . . when I flow from my default setting—JOY.

Because I’m not one thing.

I never have been.

I am The JOYful Writer.
I am the magnetic storyteller.

I am Just Jill.

And I am Jill (in the messy middle) Stevens.

And I am the woman who guides people through transformation.

I am the ghost(writer) who built someone else’s empire.

And I am the quiet creator finally building her own.

I am the prolific creator who wakes at 3:33am.

And I am the tired one who allows a lamb to interrupt her life, her sleep, her home.

Multifaceted. All true. All real. All me.

And I’m done squishing them onto someone else’s sofa.

So here’s what’s forming.

Not fully formed. Not yet ready to launch in a tidy bow. But honest.

Two doors. One me.

Not a hallway.
Not a single open-plan loft.
Not the bro-marketer’s one-room mandate.

I’m creating a house with rooms.
With nooks and crannies.
Wide wrap-around porches.
And wild, overflowing, in-bloom gardens.

Sound familiar? (Episode 6: The Opening)

Turns out I’ve been writing the architecture of my own word-house since I was seventeen.

I just kept letting other people convince me to tear it down, put it on hold, do it their way.

547 sales from a cracked open door tell me my way is working.

That slow and steady—at the moment—is actually okay.

Because yes, I need focus. But no—I don’t need a caged box.

Maybe you can relate, Lovely Reader.

Maybe you’ve been told to pick one thing too.

Maybe your body has been whispering rest while the bro-voices in your head are screaming push, hustle, more.

Maybe your sofa peed itself this week (metaphorically, hopefully) and you’re realizing the chair-ottoman was the answer all along.

I hear that whisper within you because I have it too.

I see you. I hear you. I am you.

I say—
Pick you.

The whole, complicated, many-sided, multi-dimensional you.

That’s not scattered.

That’s coming home.

So here we are.

The tooth is half-fixed, round two and another trip to come, along with another flight, another trip and hopefully no more Choupie break-ins.

The Frenchman is on his next trip—I miss him in a quiet, grown-up way that doesn’t ache or require he do or say anything.

Lamb Chop has her voice (mostly) and a deep distrust of pens.

Choupie is officially the goat-shaped reminder to myself that multiple locks per gate are always required. Even on a small door.

Kit Kat is still curled belly-exposed beside me. The interloper who came in through a window, terrorized my two gray cats, and never left.

The sofa is sacrificed.

But thanks to Lippy and his steam cleaning machine, it might be saved.

The chair-ottoman has earned a permanent spot in my living room—and my well-rested heart.

The front door is open.

547 souls walked through.

And me?

I’m exhausted. My mouth is hella sore . . .

But I’m good, solid in the best possible way.

I’m finally allowing the uncaging of my thoughts, my beliefs—me.

A note on rhythm—as this weekly experiment unfolds, in real time—a once (re)build has literally become a JOYful ReWrite.

While I love the TGIF intimacy created for Between My Sheets—I’m no longer word-promising noon.

Just as I’m not allowing others to cage me, I’m no longer willing to cage myself to a noon time line.

This week, as my jaw ached, I wondered if even Friday-as-deadline is too much . . . but instead, I’m giving myself a bit of grace.

For now, the ritual stays.
The pressure can ease.
The words will always come.

Until next Friday, Lovely Reader.

Just Jill “two doors, one Jill, no cage” Stevens

💜

P.S. Once I hit publish on this episode my ReWrite on hiding is done and becomes a way of being in my past. It’s time.

Hello, self-awareness.

A Sneak Peek

The Balance Sheet

Because the numbers tell a story too.

Last week’s cracked-open door (311 orders in 48 hours) became this week’s quietly-tended door.

No social push. No big email blast. No “launch.”

Just a door I cracked open, fixed when something broke, and let breathe.

Episode 8—$5,243 from quiet beta offers.

No launch. No list. No social.

Episode 9—$5,756 from two emails sent between bottle-feedings.

51% yes rate.

Episode 10—$5,940 from one email to 83 readers.

44 new-to-me people walked in.

Episode 11—311 orders in 48 hours.

The door cracked open just a sliver.

Episode 12—547 orders. And I never fully shared.

The full math—average cart value, bump take rates, upsell conversion, the email-by-email breakdown of the soft-cracked door—is what The Balance Sheet itself will hold.

And it’s coming soon.

First access goes to readers who are already here.

Build it. Open it. Don’t push it. Let it breathe.

That’s divine.

The Balance Sheet—the paid extension of Between My Sheets—opens soon. Inside: the full numbers, the real systems, the deeper behind-the-scenes of building this word-business in real time. Plus extra word-bonuses I’m writing —Confessions of a Ghost(writer) and Agent Talks to name a few. First access goes to readers who are already here.

Watch this space.

If you want to follow this unfolding story each Friday,
you can subscribe below.

Subscribe now

Just so you know: This is my slice of the web where hot flashes meet cold wine, neck waddles are real, and birthdays feel more like breakdowns. Step into my word-world as I (Re)Write my word-life in real time—finally as myself, no longer a ghost(writer). Side effects may include tears, laughter, and definitely more JOY.

What if perfectly imperfect is what (re)building a writing life actually looks like?

Welcome, you.

This week?

A tooth cracked.
A door cracked open.
And I cracked open in the driveway as The Frenchman pulled away.

Three cracks. One week. May 1st arrived anyway.

Hot damn.

The Frenchman left Saturday—Paris bound—and because Lamb Chop (as I’ve been nicknaming her this week) doesn’t let me off the farmette without a loud meltdown—a friend took him to the airport.

That same friend I said—”I’ll just delete you” if he signed up for my email list—back in Episode 6: The Opening.

I know—crazy.

The Frenchman hugged me hard.

And I felt the weight of it all envelope me just as his arms released me.

The weight of his love.

The weight of the week ahead of me—and the return to all the chores he’d been handling.

The weight of Lamb Chop’s hoof resting on my foot as she leaned against my leg.

He kissed me a few times, then pulled back to toss his nearly empty rucksack into the trunk of the car.

As they drove out of sight, past the goats and up the long drive, I walked the opposite way with my faithful companion glued to my side.

The tears didn’t surprise me . . .

But the need to verbally give thanks did. Almost like a whispered prayer—a flood of words, of love, of gratitude flowed out of me . . .

and I know, somehow, reached him.

And then I gave thanks.
For that wonderful—annoyingly wonderful—man.

The one who did so much these last weeks it was a full-stop moment of oh hell, I might be in trouble.

He brushed Donkey Donkey for the love of it.
He warmed bottles before first light.
He made sure the milk was always at the ready.
He carried Lamb Chop’s milk-making weight . . .

all without a single complaint—bless him.

He doesn’t read this.

He doesn’t speak my style of English—scratch that, he speaks it perfectly when he wants to. He just doesn’t read this.

But I want it on the record—I love that man.

And while we’re getting things on the record, Lovely Reader, here’s something I think I’ve said in pieces but haven’t said straight:

Until Moo Baah, my first rescue goat, I didn’t know how to trust unconditional love from him.

From anyone.

The Frenchman has given it to me from day one.
For fifteen years . . .

I just didn’t know how to receive it—until more than half of those had already passed.

It took a day old baby goat, umbilical cord still attached, walking straight into my arms to teach me.

That life-changing moment—the one that shifted something in me—happened eight years ago tomorrow.

Eight years . . .

I was in the cottage.
Renovation underway.
Kitchen cabinets in pieces on the floor.

Drill in my hand. Music playing.

The back door was wide open and the music not so loud as to hide the sound of something . . . crying.

I moved to the door and there he was.

Precious.
Tiny.
Alone.

A black and white ball of fluff.
Unsteady on his four hooves.
Yet, determined.

As I moved closer, he did too. Walking right up to my cottage door and screamed, “Maah!”

Then came oh-so-trustingly right into my arms.

No hesitation. No question. No introduction.

He stole my heart in that instant.

My first.

Moo Baah.

Because he looks like a black and white cow but sounds like a—baah.

And today he’s eight years old.

He is the reason I stayed on this remote island for more than one year.

Learning how to care for him, protect him, love him.

There was a moment during Moo Baah’s early months when I rocked him in my arms all night long.

Three months in, he wasn’t sick. Just off. I felt it in my bones.

God forbid I woke up to tragedy.
That I just couldn’t bear.

And somewhere in those long hours before first light . . .

I’d gone and done it. Become wildly attached. To a baby goat. As if he was my child—and in many ways he was.

Which is interesting, because long before that night, I’d made a conscious choice not to have children.

There were moments where that choice could have swung toward the yes, but it simply wasn’t meant to be.

Not for me. Not in this lifetime. No regrets.

Even though my reasoning for that childless choice was flawed—I can now see—I can also understand how it served me and my path.

That choice allowed me to do what I so naturally do.

Mother.

Other people’s children for a short time—as a teacher, a tutor, as a step-mom to two.

Mother.

All the animals—both big and small.

And boy am I a mother—and recovering mother(hen).

Worrying and protecting and overcompensating for the lack of mothering, of care, of protection I failed to receive as a child.

So that night with Moo Baah cradled in my arms, tears streaming down my cheeks, honestly afraid he might take his last breath at any moment . . .

I started a deep ReWrite of that story.

I realized, in the dark of night with Moo curled on my lap, that had I chosen motherhood for myself, I would have been damn good at it.

That goat.
All these goats I’ve rescued.
They have taught me so much when I pause, take a breath, and tap in.

He didn’t just give me a flock.

He gave me a new operating system.

He taught me to slow down.

To stop rushing through his bottle-feeding to do what? Check email?

Seriously!

Email could wait.
He couldn’t.

He taught me to enJOY a moment for the moment’s sake.

Cuddles.
Afternoon naps.
Sunshine and the tropical breeze on my upturned face.

I made him salads.
I chopped his vegetables.
I sliced his grapes in half because babies—even baby goats—can choke.
I even de-seeded his apples.

I know.
Crazy.

And here is the thing I have not told you straight, until now—

Moo Baah cracked open my heart in a deep way.

Eight years ago.

Through an open back door—something not even The Frenchman had been able to do.

He taught me how to truly love—unconditionally.
And be loved. And how to stop hiding my light.

But here’s what no one sees—
Moo Baah is the reason any of this exists.

The cottage.
The flock.
The farmette.

Even the book I finally wrote under my own name.

And my finally—finally—trusting The Frenchman’s unconditional love.

In a roundabout way, Moo Baah is the reason the front door cracked open Wednesday for a select few.

The reason this very publication exists.
Me—here—vulnerable, real, bare.
Trusting that the right reader who needs this slice of light will find these words.

He walked through my open back door eight years ago and taught me to love, to slow down, to accept love.

Today, May 1st he’s the focus.

The front door was always going to follow him.

Now—about that cracked open door . . .

I need to tell you something, before anything else.

The front door isn’t fully open today.

I know. I know what I promised. On or before May 1st.

Here’s what actually happened—

I cracked it open Wednesday. Just a little. To a small slice of my email list.

Not the formal flourish.
No big fanfare.

Just a quiet—Hi there, would you like to come in early and maybe share feedback on your experience?

And the delicious results . . .

In just 12 hours: 77 orders.

And the orders kept coming in—hot damn.

The phone has been dinging consistently and at times incessantly—You made a sale!—ever since.

Three things broke—just three.
And that’s perfectly imperfect.

I’ll fix them all today, after giving Moo Baah his birthday almonds.
(He loves them. Most of the flock does.)

That’s structured ease with a mug of something delicious.

That’s a door that’s open enough to let people in—and not so open I want to burn the house down if/when something goes wrong.

So I’m taking the weekend. Come Monday—or when I’m ready—I’ll open the front door to my word-world wide.

And soon I’ll be sharing—in delightful detail—how it all goes in The Balance Sheet—for now free to review and soon, part of the paid version of this word-experience.

(Full details are in The Balance Sheet Sneak Peek below—you’ll want to see this one.)

Hi there, Lovely Reader—
I want you to stay here and keep reading this delicious story.

So I’m just dropping this note to say—if you like what I’m writing, be sure to subscribe. The button’s waiting at the end of this post.

And I know you’ll want to continue this Friday journey with me . . . right?!

About the tooth.

It cracked Sunday or Monday and there’s no dentist on this little rock of island paradise.

So I’m St. Maarten bound soon, but not right now as it’s Carnival.

Which means half of that island is in the streets—partying, and probably most of the dentists are enJOYing the festivities too—or hiding from them.

The number of unanswered phone calls, messages left and WhatsApp notes sent but not yet seen makes me question my sanity for being on this remote, crazy place.

But then I wake up to this—no filters, no AI—just pure magic . . .
and I smile.

I know why.

So, I’m keeping calm and focusing on deep breathing through the occasional discomfort—until Thursday.

Assuming I can fly off island—sometimes it’s not possible.
Assuming a hoarse-voiced lamb can survive my absence for most of a day.
Assuming the goats stay friendly.

(They didn’t. More on that in a second.)

For now—no throbbing pain. The tooth is just there—cracked.

A quiet little reminder to do better with self care and self love.

And if the tooth drama wasn’t enough—let me share about these goats.

Last night, dusk into dark, Buddha Kiss Me Sigh decided to break down a barrier and visit her sworn enemy, Snow White.

These two have hated each other since Snow White came as a baby.

Girl drama. But instead of ripping off gold hoops like a 90s version of JLo, these girls headbutted each other with crushing horn-to-horn force—through a fence.

And they won’t stop. Ever. Not without an intervention.

First order of business, move Snow to a holding space before Buddha realized there was an opening she could pass through and be face-to-face with her enemy instead of being separated by a few pieces of wooden fence.

One goat secured, the next step was to get Buddha back—but no, she wasn’t budging and did find that opening.

Damn it.

So into the large pen to meet and greet others on their turf.

Which meant a lot of headbutts—but none, at least for the moment, with deadly intent.

So I was in the pen, drill in hand to fix that temporary barrier that had given up its will to live.

And mid-screw—the drill battery died.

You cannot make this shit up.

Sigh.

Meanwhile, poor Woolley Nightowl Lamb Chop raced up and down the driveway screaming—Maah. Maah. Maah.

Poor thing got hoarse fast.

Trying to sooth her by talking to her, and keep Monkey Love from joining what could soon turn deadly—Woolley just became more vocal.

Knowing I had no working drill and next to no light, I gave up the ghost and called for reinforcements.

The most helpful guy who had created the barrier, but apparently didn’t fully secure it—he answered.

Thank God.

“Twenty-five minutes,” he said, , but I think it was less than ten and he was there—with a working drill.

He probably heard the extreme stress in my voice . . . and dropped everything.

He also knows how crazy Snow White and Buddha can be.

His truck and headlights sent little Lamb Chop racing down the driveway to quiet-scream closer to the house.

Together, in the dark, we got everything sorted.

Eventually.

The barrier, an actual blockade, the goats returned to the correct pens, the calming of Lamb Chop.

By the time I came back to the cottage, Lamb Chop, like my drill, was out of juice and had no voice.

Her Maah soundings this morning are the saddest-cutest thing I have ever heard.

Bless her.

And on a side note—Moo Baah was not one of the trouble-makers. He turned eight today like the best boy-goat that he is.

About that pending bath . . . I thought it would happen.

I had it teed up in my mind as soon as I realized the Above-Me Neighbors were gone.

They slipped out Wednesday sometime; I didn’t notice until yesterday morning.

The thing I had been waiting on for weeks happened, and I missed it by a day.

Because I was busy being a goat-mama, lamb-mama, tooth-cracked, husband-just-left, sales-page-fixing writer, living.

The thing you’re waiting for might already be happening while you’re not looking.

So the bath was right there.

But after the goat fight last night—after Lamb Chop’s nerves were shot—she desperately needed to rest in a familiar spot. On her dog bed. In front of the sofa. With me by her side.

So I poured a chilled glass of white and parked my ass on that sofa to veg for a hot minute.

And then, while she slept, slipped outside to enJOY the full moon rise for a beat.

The bath wasn’t the win. The choice was.

Choosing her, again.
Choosing not to rush, again.
Choosing not to beat myself up, again.
Choosing structured ease, again.

I refuse to make this rather full, eventful week—wrong.

Not even the cracked tooth.

One more thing while I have you, Lovely Reader.

The system finally clicked.

Maybe you’ll remember back in Episode 6: The Opening I was playing with structured ease and the best system. I am so not a spreadsheet girl. So in that moment it was one Google Doc with tabs as products.

Well, that became a massive document fast. So in Episode 8: The French Kiss, oh-la-la, I switched to one doc per product.

Yet, neither was quite right.

Third time’s the charm. Haven’t I talked about the power of threes before?

One master doc—a single living document with every email, every note, every who-this-is-for, every customer thread.

Plus, one Big-Ass-Business Doc, with a tab per product—each with its own sheet of tags, URLs, every checkout page, every asset, every flow. Always there, in one place to find.

So a creative doc and a tech doc.
How simple-sweet.

When I do this for each offer, I can suddenly find anything I need at the drop of a hat.

At times boring as hell to create. Tedious like chop water, carry wood.

But built with intention, with structured ease and now working . . .

boring is what thriving sounds like in my head.

And I call that winning.

Maybe you can relate.

Maybe there’s a thing you promised yourself by a date, and the date came, and the thing isn’t quite ready.

And the universe handed you your version of a cracked tooth, a runaway goat fight, and a screaming lamb—and nothing went on schedule.

Maybe it cracked open instead of swinging wide.

Lovely Reader, I am here to tell you—cracked open is the win.

You don’t need the perfect anything.

Instead, consider cracking the thing open and just begin.

If you want to write—write for 11 minutes today.

It’s honestly that simple and yet so easy to make hard.

I’m learning to let it be easy.
To let a few people into my perfectly imperfect world.

Watch what breaks.
Fix what breaks.

Then crack it a little wider.
Rinse and repeat.

That’s the whole game.

I see you. I am you.

So here we are.

Lamb Chop is hoarse.
The Frenchman is in Paris—jet-lagged.
The tooth is cracked.
And the door is cracked open just a bit.

The bath is still untaken—but this weekend, it’s on.

Moo Baah is eight.

The Above-Me Neighbors are gone, and I missed it.

The full front door opens Monday or when it’s done.

And it’s all okay.

Oh and tonight, it’s a full moon. So the goats will either be uber calm or obnoxiously crazy.

And it occurred to me, somewhere in this cracked-open week—

I’m not building from scratch.
I’m building from the middle.

We all have a middle.
The (re)build starts with a single step forward.

And me?

I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

Writing from my kitchen counter, a hoarse-voiced lamb asleep at my feet, and finally creating my delicious life and divine business my way.

Until next Friday, Lovely Reader.

Just Jill “Moo Baah’s goat-Maah“ Stevens

💜

P.S. Moo Baah—he’s the reason any of this exists. This farmette, words written and shared as me, the deeply sleeping Lamb Chop at my feet. A birthday salad is definitely on the way. He’s my love, after The Frenchman.

P.P.S. There’s something else I’m building called Flip the Script on You—a deeper path into my words for the one in the messy middle and ready for a ReWrite.

Autumn, my editor and also a writer, looked at it, and loved it.

It’s not quite ready yet because, well, I’m learning to focus on one thing—not seven at a time. Ha!

Sometimes I win at that . . . sometimes not so much. But once the front door is open, I’ll be focusing on that side door. More soon.

A Sneak Peek

The Balance Sheet

Because the numbers tell a story too.

In two days, 311 orders.

From a door I cracked open just a sliver.

Let me say that again, because it deserves it—

311 orders in 48 hours.

12 hours in: 77.
24 hours in: 159.
48 hours in: 311.

Out of forty-seven-ish moving parts—three broke.

Three. Just three.

That is a 94% success rate on a soft-cracked door, with a tooth out of commission and a husband en route to Paris and a hoarse-voiced lamb under my chair.

And I’m (old me) not even good at math!

Hot damn.

And here’s where the line bends, Lovely Reader.

Because the past few weeks of Between My Sheets have already been telling a quiet story:

Episode 8—$5,243 from quiet beta offers. No launch. No list. No social.

Episode 9—$5,756 from two emails sent between bottle-feedings. 51% yes rate.

Episode 10—$5,940 from one email to 83 readers. 44 new-to-me people walked in.

All of it without the front door open.
All of it through quiet side-doors.

And then this week—

A door cracked open just a sliver. Two days. Five figures.

The full math—the average cart value, the bump take rates, the upsell conversion, the email-by-email breakdown—is what The Balance Sheet itself will hold.

Hospital corners and a mint on the pillow. Coming soon. First access goes to readers who are already here.

The front door isn’t fully open yet.

Build it, crack it open, and they shall come—if aligned.

And that’s divine.

The Balance Sheet—the paid extension of Between My Sheets—opens soon.
Inside: the full numbers, the real systems, the deeper behind-the-scenes of building this word-business in real time. First access goes to readers who are already here.

Watch this space.

If you want to follow this unfolding story each Friday,
you can subscribe below.

Subscribe now

Just so you know: This is my slice of the web where hot flashes meet cold wine, neck waddles are real, and birthdays feel more like breakdowns. Step into my word-world as I (re)build my writing life in real time.

One week.
One choice.
One quiet shift at a time.

💜 New here? Series Reading Order

If you’d like the full story as it unfolds, begin with the Prelude and move forward week by week.

Season One

Prelude — “I just want to write”
Before the beginning, there were just five snarled words.

Episode One — The Morning After
What happens the morning after you decide to begin again.

Episode Two — Partnering
A tempting collaboration . . . and what partnering actually costs.

Episode Three — The Embrace
When the body says stop—and the business finally listens.

Episode Four — Coming Undone
When the chaos behind the creativity finally catches up.

Episode Five — The Reveal
Turns out my creative flow doesn’t need more freedom—it needs a frame.

Episode Six — The Opening
One gate. A curious goat. The Frenchman.

Episode Seven — The Gold
One bathtub. A 57% yes. Sunday is coming.

Episode Eight — The French Kiss
The Frenchman. The bathtub. The word-web.

Episode Nine — The Unruffling
The Frenchman remains. The bath . . . well. The word-web disrupted.

Episode Ten — The Climax
When the climax doesn't look like what you expected.

Season One: Interlude
$150K declined. $5K accepted. Some decisions only look crazy from the outside.

Season Two

Episode Eleven — Cracked Open
A tooth cracked. A door cracked open. A heart cracked wide.

Episode Twelve — The UnCaging
A cracked tooth. A sacrificed sofa. The cage came off.

Episode Thirteen — The ReWriting
The body said rest. The finishing happened anyway. A story, finally told.

Episode Fourteen — The BeComing
A lifequake. A thirty-year hiding place finally named. A word no longer mine to own.

Episode Fifteen — Friday . . .

New episodes arrive each Friday .

If you’d like new chapters delivered to your inbox each week, you can subscribe below.

(And if you prefer to wander the messy middle at your own pace . . . that works too.)

All I ask is that you enJOY the journey.

💜

Just Jill
The JOYful Writer & Quiet Creator

Welcome, you.

This isn’t the first episode of season two.

That episode is still forming—somewhere between three hours of broken sleep, a lamb with strong opinions about my sofa, and a Frenchman currently packing for his flight back to Paris tomorrow morning.

I’m sitting typing this at the kitchen counter—the darkness of night a normal companion—wondering how he’ll get to the airport because this Woolley Nightowl Lamb Chop is not yet ready to be left alone.

The Frenchman and I have been having a debate the last two days about Woolley, our newest rescue baby, and the reason I’ve been sleeping on the sofa for going on three weeks now.

Woolley, in her infinite baby wisdom, has decided I am her mother, her security blanket, her world. And she’s become my personal, uninvited alarm clock.

She will not settle unless I am within arm’s reach—although this week she’s showing some maturity. But when she realizes I’m not within view—she belts out “Maa” in the cutest—cough—loudest possible way.

I’m training myself NOT to immediately react to her every call.

But her need to be close to her mother—even a human substitute—well, that means I’m on the sofa with her on a cushioned doggy bed or in the crate with the door open, beside me.

Closing the crate door is currently NOT an option.

So, the sofa is my new bed. Every night.

And the Frenchman, he sleeps peacefully in our actual bed like a man who has not recently become a lamb mother.

Although he admitted tossing and turning in the AC starting at 2am. Something makes me think he’s missing me already.

Smile.

My solution—entirely reasonable, I thought—was to find Woolley a companion. A boy toy baby goat of her own to bond with.

(No other baby lambs are currently on the island—hence the baby goat option.)

A being similar in size, with four legs and hooves, who could redirect her considerable attachment away from me and back toward her own (kind of) kind.

The Frenchman was not immediately convinced.

But The Frenchman is a bit against this plan as she’s a baby . . . plus the last time we did something crazy like that it really didn’t work out well.

We bought Moo Baah a girlfriend—a white spotted goat—for $25. She arrived much larger than we were told, on a lead she was resisting, and with a feisty attitude that immediately set me into protect-my-Moo-baby mode.

She promptly head-butted him, ate all his food, and pooped everywhere.

He was so scared by this unknown beast he climbed up behind me on a chair and refused to leave until she—thankfully for him—ran away within two hours.

Very expensive two-hour girlfriend.

Well, turns out inflation is a thing with goats too, because a two month old, hornless boy toy goat for Woolley now would cost me $250!

Say what?

I say, hell no . . . at least for now.

But only because Woolley is now currently by my side making the smallest, most adorable pre-sleep baby sounds as I type this and sip a hot brew temporarily forgetting how exhausted I am.

Maybe this attachment is mutual . . .

This is the conversation that started all of this—Between My Sheets, the humming machine, the new front door, the desire for structured ease.

The moment I told my agent I was walking away from $150K ghostwriting projects to (re)build something of my own.

Read it and tell me—was she right to think I’d lost my mind?

Email Subject line: My agent thinks I’m crazy . . .

Email Preview line: What else is new?!

One day I’ll tell you the story of how my agent and I came to be fast-frenemies.

It sounds weird to be both friends and enemies with someone who helps me land book deals, but it’s true.

We go way back, back to a day when I was broken and was forced into letting her sell a manuscript I didn’t feel was ready yet.

In her defense, she had my “number” and knew—by the way I spoke, evaded her calls and wrote—that this book, any book of mine, would never be “ready” for publication.

That I’d be a starving artist type with all my literary words found stuffed under my bed upon my departure from this earth.

Not even kidding.

But more on that another time.

For today, I want to share the latest reason she’s New-York-pissed at me and why that reaction proves I’m doing exactly the right thing.

I recently told her I wasn’t taking on any more $150K ghostwriting projects.

I’ve been very selective the last few years, but now, it’s time for a change.

Unless someone’s book idea keeps me up with excitement all night, I’m saying no. More money offered won’t change that—a few have already tried.

Instead, it’s time for a shift, a beat, a change of word-pace.

A moment to write for me, as me. (Which she likes the sound of . . .)

And to help other writers. (Doesn’t like so much.)

While she gets it, my desire to teach, to mentor, to give back—she also hates when I don’t write.

Understandably so, as her income is tied to the words I generated.

But she didn’t push back (yet). Instead, she asked about my plans, half listening to my response while she moved things round on her desk.

I could hear the papers being shuffled. She’s not subtle when she’s about done talking to you.

Her shrill, “—how f*cking much?” had me pulling the smartphone away from my ear.

“$5K.”

“You’re going to coach people 1-on-1 for 90 days for what? $5K? Instead of writing (so-and-so’s) book!?”

Note: Being a professional ghostwriter means not revealing names, especially famous ones. Ever.

“Yep.”

“Have you lost your mind, Jill?”

I had to laugh at her tone. And, heck, maybe I have gone nuts, but I’m trying something new.

And it makes me happy.

A goal to help, to support, to mentor a writer who knows they must write, must do this thing they are called to do.

Gosh, that feels good.

Maybe that writer is you.

Jill “following my word-JOY” Stevens

That email was purple penned when I was mid-ReWrite, an iteration of the guide, the mirror, the path I’m now on.

Before Woolley took over my days—and nights.
Before The Frenchman arrived.
And before I realized I have something even more delicious up my sleeve.

Some decisions look crazy from the outside.
From the inside, they feel like finally coming home.

Just Jill “sofa-sleeping, lamb-mothering, $250-goat-reconsidering” Stevens

💜

P.S. Episode 11 lands next Friday. Season Two begins. May 1st—Moo Baah turns eight—and I’m calling it—the front door opens with structured ease.

P.P.S. Woolley just twitched in her sleep and made a sound that can only be described as a tiny, satisfied moan. I think I’m in love. Scratch that—I know I am.

Subscribe now

What if (re)building a writing life could be its own story . . . bound and printed?

New here? You may want to start at the beginning . . .

Because it turns out I’m writing a book disguised as a literary business model, disguised as a memoir unfolding in real time.

Between My Sheets is a living memoir about (re)building a word-centered life—
with a Frenchman, a growing goat flock, a newborn lamb with zoomies, and a front door being built with intention, not urgency.

Can I just say I’m glad you’re here?

Well, I am.

Now sink into this Friday moment—roughly a 9-minute read.

Welcome, you.

I feel like Alice in Wonderland while being Mary who had a little lamb.

The hole I keep falling down is actually a good one—because it’s showing me gold.

But it’s also debilitating.

Because I’m not yet finishing the ONE THING that matters.

The front door.

Yet.

Woolley Nightowl Lamb Chop—yes, she has a full name now, and yes, she earned every syllable of it—had a rough weekend.

Upset belly. Separation anxiety. Wouldn’t settle unless I was within arm’s reach.

(The “Nightowl” is official: she comes alive at dusk which means I come alive at dusk whether I planned to or not.)

But she turned a corner midweek.

Growing. Doing zoomies up and down the driveway.

Who knew lambs zoomed!

Racing through my house.
Jumping up on my sofa.
Oh hell no.

I've been sleeping on that sofa because little Woolley can't have me out of sight for five minutes.

She sleeps under my chair while I write and work to get this front door hung by hinges that will actually one day open—soon.

Damn it.

In fact, my reward when those hinges finally swing wide is a decadent slide into a bubble bath—the bath that is now awaiting me, ready, on my front-back porch.

But the neighbors, they haven’t left yet.

Sigh.

So that sinking into delicious waters is on hold—yet now tied to a double outcome. My front door and the departure of neighbors I’ve still yet to meet.

Double sigh.

Which one of us is anti-social?

Honestly, I think I’m just busy . . . and literally attached at the hip to a little lamb.

The Frenchman is constantly making the lamb’s milk without a single complaint and with the utmost care—two, sometimes three times a day.

While also caring for all the goats.

Bless him.

But this milk making—it’s no joke.

A messy process of powdered milk and careful stirring in of filtered water or the dust of it flies everywhere. Coating everything in a sticky film that a variety of tropical ants here are loving.

Honestly, he’s a gem.

My job is being a lamb maah and making the baby bottles 5-7 times a day, plus several feedings during the night.

Broken sleep is my new norm . . . but then again, hasn’t it always been? Then I read something that stopped me mid-bottle.

No, not wine bottle.

The article stated emphatically that our eight-hour sleep being “the norm” is nothing but a fabrication . . .

In fact, it’s a systematic cultural reshaping of society and not at all how humans naturally slept before factories needed workers and schools needed children—at set hours.

Before the invention of artificial light disturbed natural rhythms and allowed efficiency and productivity to be of utmost importance.

Two things I have systematically shied away from.

Interesting.

This read—I’m forever reading—documented how historians have found over two thousand references across twelve languages, going back to ancient Greece, describing the same pattern: four hours, then up for two, then four more of deep sleep.

By the late 1800s compulsory school attendance locked children—and therefore whole families—into a single consolidated sleep schedule.

And spending hours awake in the middle of the night went from being completely normal to being called slothful.

Gasp.

And, even worse, those who naturally woke up in the night were dubbed insomniacs. And medicated.

Yet for many, our most creative endeavors happened in that two-hour span between sleeps.

Maybe that’s why I tend to write at 3:33 am.

Maybe that’s why I have a gold mine of words in my digital drawers . . .

Maybe my body, my soul knows what’s best—
and refuses to listen to man.

Which is exactly why the front door is still closed.

It’s not open.

And honestly? I know why.

I don’t want to open it when I know it might break—when the next steps aren’t in place because I know my pattern is to fade.

Or take on another’s book project and become so lost in their story I forget my own.

Hard. Pill. To. Swallow.

I’m not forcing. And I’m not whipping myself with a self-punishment stick.

I’m allowing myself grace. And giving myself a deadline.

But at the same time, I need to whip myself in the arse—not out of shame or wrongness, but from a place of love and acceptance. A self-awareness that knows I'm very capable of playing, dabbling, perfecting, creating—and not sharing.

So the time has come, even with a little lamb all needy and clingy at my side, to get a move on.

Before I forget what I’m doing.

Because at times, what should be easy, is not.

And it’s because of me. I own it.

Writing this series each week is both a reflection on who I have been, am—and a looking glass into the crystal ball of who I want to be.

Who I already am—just on the other side of that front door.

So I’m asking myself something out loud, with you as my witness, Lovely Reader.

Am I stalling?

Or do I finally know myself so very well that I refuse to do this word-business like I have so many times attempted in the past?

Wing it.

Or am I making it more difficult than it needs to be?

If there was an “all of the above” bubble, I’d hurriedly pencil shade it in.

Do people still take paper tests with a pencil?

Here’s what happened this week.

I am a digital mess. Unorganised. A disaster.

So I did something obscene.

I asked AI to comb through my digital files and tell me what he/she/it found.

What came back stopped me cold.

Enough content to repurpose for nearly four years. Probably more. That was a search of one shared drive. I have seven.

Head meets desk—hard.

Content that could be formed into small, snackable books.

Content for a weekly newsletter that could run in the background.

Remember that humming machine I talked about in earlier episodes?

So much possibility.

And it was hysterical and disconcerting to have AI point out what I already knew.

I write daily like I’m on fire for two, maybe three months—then systematically fade.

Hence my need for systems.

For me, being live and present all-the-damn-time simply isn't realistic. It goes against my very energetic frame.

Because just as I’m not an eight hour straight sleeping girl, I’m also not an always “on” one either.

Oh and on a funny side note, AI went nuts about my goats.

It (there, pronoun settled) found a folder full of goat photos, a few videos, and then some goat tales—then promptly went bonkers.

Even going so far as to tell me this is viral shit sitting here and needs to be enJOYed by people.

Yes, it capitalized JOY my way!

Bloody hell.

I told you it was obscene.

Big Brother, it turns out, is very interested in my goats.

But the idea that people would love to see my damn goats and this little lamb racing up and down my driveway at crazy speeds for such a little soul—it stuck.

It’s always been there—on a loop in the back of my mind.

Just lacking a distribution system.

Because just look at that face.

And this one . . . my life with goats.

And if I ever shared the video of Moo Baah losing his teenage shit—it would go viral for sure.

I’m sharing it. Consider yourself warned.

But let’s stick to the words for now.

302 individual pieces.
And on a second search more than 400.

But of only one drive of seven.

Yes, I’m snickering over here.

Because Poor AI thought it solved my issues by mapping out:

Six thematic volumes, fifty-two emails, book chapters that never made it between a spine, course content, farmette stories, and enough material for a weekly newsletter running quietly in the background for three, possibly four years.

Words written when I was hiding.

Words written when I was brave.

Words typed at 3:33am when something cracked open and had to come out before first light faded.

And not even all my words.

I’m not a digital mess.

I’m a digital word-vault.

A literal money-printing-press when I get out of my own way and share . . .

Remember, Episode 6—one piece of that vault—a 16-minute audio recorded on my laptop, in this house, in a few hours—has already made more than $27,000 in just a few years time.

On autopilot. When offered. Which wasn’t often.

And somehow I was walking around calling my content a digital disaster.

So here’s my declaration.

I refuse to wing it.

That’s new.

That’s Season One in three words.

That’s what I’ve been hedging, fighting, not honoring fully—until now.

100% possible 100% of the time.

The front door will open.
The bath will happen.
The words will reach 33 then 333 then 3,333 then 33,000 souls.

I believe this the way I believe Woolley Nightowl Lamb Chop will try to jump on my sofa again today.

With complete and utter certainty.

Maybe you have your own all-of-the-above bubble to pencil in, Lovely Reader.

Maybe you’ve been calling your creativity a disaster too.

Maybe you’re the one who finally knows yourself well enough to refuse to do it the old way—and that refusal looks, from the outside, exactly like stalling.

I’m here to say maybe it isn’t.

Instead, it’s finally making the bed before you get in it—for a four or eight hour sleep.

Am I comfy-cozy warm?

Season One of Between My Sheets ends here.

No need to freak.

I didn’t say Between My Sheets ends.
Just season one.
Stick with me.

Ten episodes.
One Frenchman arrival.
One newborn lamb.
One content vault cracked open.
One outdoor bath almost enJOYed.
One front door mid-construction.
One word-business being built like a solid, inviting bed—one layer at a time.

So I’m creating a booklet (soon) for Season One—and calling it

The Unruffling.
That’s a bed being made. One sheet at a time.

A compilation of the prelude and episodes 1 through 10 with a little extra something-something written from me—for readers who want to hold the whole season in their hands.

As if I need to write more words when I already have so many.

Actually, yes, I do.
I forever will.
At 3:33am.

But now, now they have purpose and a path into the light.

And soon into your hands—should you wish to have them all proper-bound.
(Details soon.)

But don’t fret, Lovely Reader. I’m not Shonda Rhimes (love her) and this is not Bridgerton . . . but oh, how I love that show!

There will be no—waiting for Season Two to begin—beyond our normal weekly rhythm.

So until Episode 11 . . .

I’m off to spend as much time with the Frenchman as I can. Chaperoned, of course, by Woolley.

And when he leaves, one week from tomorrow, I’m not sure what will happen.

My hands will be full . . . and I’ll admit my heart—a bit empty.

Not just because this visit he’s carried so much of the daily weight—while quietly supporting me as I continued working on a “front door” project that he can’t comprehend—simply because it matters to me.

Can you love someone more fifteen years later even when separated by thousands of miles most of the time?

My answer—I’ll let you take a wild guess.

Just Jill 💜 Stevens

P.S. Woolley would like you to know she has no regrets about the sofa incident nor being a Nightowl.

P.P.S. The front door will open.

P.P.P.S. Moo Baah turns eight on May 1st. This was back closer to his terrible twos.

A Sneak Peek

The Balance Sheet

Because the numbers tell a story too.

Before I wrap, I want to share something extraordinary.

Two people—currently inside, going through several of my products — reached out and asked if they could invite friends in.

Make it an experience. Together.

Without me asking.

I said heck, yeah.

Emailed them both a link to a sales page that’s already done — the one they saw and ordered from. Opened a private checkout door.

Those two people brought in 15 new-to-me people. Overnight.

What?!

So I sent one email to all 83 people who’d come through that side door.

“Hey, you’re inside . . . some of you asked to bring along friends and make an experience of it. If that’s something you’d like to do too — share this link over the next few days with anyone who might say yes.”

Are you ready for the result?

44 total new-to-me people.

$5,940—extra, unexpected, un-asked-for.

And JOYfully received.

The front door isn’t open yet.

The house is already full.

Side note: The sleep research is real—and more fascinating than the viral version. Roger Ekirch spent sixteen years and found over two thousand historical references, going back to ancient Greece, documenting the natural two-sleep pattern.
This is worth your time.

What if (re)building a writing life means slowing the hell down—
on purpose?

New here? You may want to start at the beginning . . .

Because it turns out I’m writing a book disguised as a literary business model, disguised as a memoir unfolding in real time.

Sink into this Friday moment—roughly a 10-minute read.

Welcome, you.

Sunday was a quiet, delicious day spent with The Frenchman simply being present. Connecting, chatting, laughing.

In the late afternoon, as he read something historical or political, I turned my fingers to the keys and found myself writing.

Of course—because that’s what I do.

Mid-sentence my phone dinged with a message.

Is this Jill? Do you still foster?

I do.
I always do.
I probably always will.

That morning a baby lamb—born and rejected by her mama—needed a home.

A wooly bundle of pure JOY with no one to claim her.

The Frenchman—who arrived from Paris all proper, posh, and put together—found himself driving us up to The Level in shorts and a wrinkled t-shirt to pick up a new baby rescue.

Because of course he did. Because this is my life. Our life—when he’s here.

Which makes me melt more than the savory-sweet French tarts he brings me or any gold he could buy me.

Somewhere between the flock of rescue goats, the rescue cats, and two pups—a bathtub on the front porch, and a word-web I’m building one delightful thread at a time . . .

A lamb arrived.

On Easter morning.

Unexpected.
Unplanned.

And she’s got me all but undone with her sassy cuteness.

Her name came on Wednesday—one word uttered by The Frenchman that triggered a memory.

I’ve probably never shared this, but perhaps it’ll be like an “oh yeah” moment for you—based on my nickname for The Frenchman.

I give most people in my life a (nick)name.

It’s funny because in one of my front door offers, I write about this very thing—the names I give people.

And one of those individuals was the girlfriend of my father for nearly twenty years.

My father didn't have many girlfriends and I knew her for about twenty years—from my late teens into my thirties.

I dubbed her—”She Who Chomps A Lot.”

Not nice perhaps, but I was young and she actually did—chomp—a lot and loudly.

But that’s not why I bring it up. Just as I give people nicknames, I think I inadvertently picked up the habit from my Dad.

He was forever giving me a nickname depending on something that happened, something I did, or even how I looked.

As The Frenchman and I walked with the little lamb, he commented on her “wooly, white coat” and the memory of one such nickname flooded back.

In my twenties my hair, when a certain length, naturally hung in ringlets. No product, nothing needed to hold the curl, it just was.

My Dad loved all the curls. He used to ruffle my head—me as an adult, mind you, not a child—and watch them bounce right back.

Now normally touching a woman’s curls might lead to frizz or a melt down, but for me, I loved it. I knew just a splash of water and my curls would reform if he managed to give me static electricity.

But more than the action of ruffling my hair—even into my thirties—was what he called me each time he did . . .

“My Wooly Lamb.”

This little rescued baby . . .

The one I’ve been bottle feeding every few hours.

Doing laundry like a new mama.

Sleeping less than I’d like—also like a new mama—and still managing to work in between—finally found her name.

Wooly Lamb.

Somehow, even though this week went off the rails—
unplanned—
it’s been oddly perfect.

Time with The Frenchman.
Time with this new addition.
Time on my word-web business—when able.

Everything is unfolding in the best possible way.

Slowly—as it should.

. . .

Now. The honest part.

The front door is still not open.

I told you my goal in Episode 8: The French Kiss. And mid-week came and went.

But here’s the golden thread—I’m not beating myself up about it.

Here’s what happened instead.

Sixty products found.

Sixty.

By going slow and being more systematic than I’ve ever been, I have found a word-treasure long buried in digital chaos masked as a filing system.

Sixty (plus probably) offers, ideas, products—most of them three-quarters finished, none of these just an idea.

Created. All but finished. Lovingly made—then locked away—cough, filed away—unshared.

Which reminds me of something else.

Iron.

Stay with me a beat.

I’ve forever been low in iron—the stored kind in the body—known as ferritin.

A good or normal number should be above 50ng/mL and more toward 100ng/mL for a female my age.

Mine, at times, was zero—in my thirties.

As in no storage. Let that sink in a moment . . .

No iron, a heavy metal the body needs to survive, could lead to stroke, sudden death—basically bad shit—and required an IV of synthetic iron twice a year to keep me stable.

Alive.

Today my iron is at 24ng/mL.
No IVs in several years.
Just self care.

For my doctor, that’s too low.
For me, that’s a miracle.

But why do I bring this up?

Well, the question of why I don’t have iron or can’t seem to store it has been up for much debate.

Like the old adage—which came first, the chicken or the egg?

When I get an IV or iron, it goes through the bloodstream, and my organs take-take-greedily-take what they need.

And what’s left over, if any, gets stored for later.
Ferritin.

When you eat iron rich foods, the same thing happens. The iron is absorbed where needed. The rest is stored.

Hopefully, if all works as it should.

But what if the distribution channel is broken?
Non-existent?

I once imagined little trucks moving iron through my system and dropping it off like Amazon packages delivered by hunky drivers.

So do I not have trucks to deliver my iron?

Or is there no hunk-a-hunk-a-burning-love there to drive those iron-filled trucks?

But looking at my endless digital files—sitting there—I see that I have a major distribution issue.

A challenge to be solved.

Real, most nearly-finished, created-with-care offers sitting unseen. Unshared. Gathering a lifetime of digital dust.

I know most coaches would say “launch fast”—get it out there, get data, feedback, then find the path.

And yeah, no, not this time.

I’ve moved fast before.

Slapped up an ugly Google Doc sales page—beautifully written . . .

I’ve created products, checkout pages—learning the tech as I went.

I’ve run ads—huge learning there with money being spent.

I’ve “won” at ads, not even understanding what was working, and sold thousands of book copies.

And one thing forever happened that drove me mad.

Something would break.

Links. Sequences. Tags that tangled into knots the moment someone walked through the door.

I won’t do that again.

So this week I did something slower.
Harder.

I opened every file. I looked at every product.

I saw how selfish I’ve been not to focus on a distribution system for these treasure filled treats.

Because it is selfish to hide my offers, my words, my talent, my light.

What I write matters.

That’s not an arrogant statement. That’s fact.

One I am told by readers over and over again.

So I slowed down, took inventory, and returned to the front door of my word-web.

This might sound crazy, nuts, to read.

In this day and age of AI, when a product—like a book—can be created in 90 seconds, ads for it in another two, and all the checkout done, setup and ready to sell in twenty.

And that’s okay—I’d rather be off my rocker than sound like everyone else.

Because with AI comes the need for vulnerability, for realness—for stories, offers, words that make a person feel.

Which is what I so naturally do with my writing.

In fact, I found this book of prompts I wrote—eleven magnetic writing prompts that do just that—make you feel.

So, while I could sell high-ticket . . .

While I could consult again at $1K an hour . . .

Or build one thing . . .

Or return to ghostwriting contracts for an easy $150K . . .
even in this time of AI . . .

Or return to that AI Partnering idea I wrote about in Episode 2: Partnering . . .

Just no.

I am following my calling, creating my way.

And step-by-step organizing myself by creating a distribution channel that won’t carry iron or have hot Amazon-like delivery drivers . . .

But it will be reliable.

It will be built to work.

It will be welcoming . . .
like climbing between the silky sheets
of a fresh, well-made bed—
each and every night.

. . .

Speaking of well-made beds.

The bathtub is hooked up.

It’s there. Working. Wednesday, mid-day.

The silky, almost-hot water is real.

But.

The Above-Me Neighbors—who have been to their place exactly once in the past year—chose the night of my bathtub hookup to arrive.

I haven’t met them yet.

Is that strange?

Maybe.

But since my tub faces their house—just barely, through the trees—I’m not risking it.

Two more weeks.
Then they go.

Or that’s the rumor I heard . . .

So I wait.
Again.

The bath is patient.
So am I.

(Mostly.)

Yes, that’s my size-seven foot tap-tap-tapping.

. . .

Here’s what I know right now.

I’ve got the first nineteen products nearly organized and starting to connect, work, and create this beautiful, interconnected word-web.

Within these are my Front Door.

They are yet to be tested . . . but close.

So this weekend, that’s my plan. Finish these and test, between baby bottles and laundry.

Between French kisses and figuring out the housing plan for Wooly Lamb, who currently has a dog crate in the house as her down-time, napping space.

And oh, did I mention there’s a donkey on the island who needs a better home?

Donkey Donkey, my uncreative name for him. He’s been forever tied, with no shelter and—sigh—alone.

Which, like my many offers, if I was able to rescue him, would—of course—need to add another donkey to the mix to be his friend.

Because donkeys are social creatures—so not meant to be alone.

But do I even have room?

That’s a question for another day . . .

So even with all this structured-chaos and lack of sleep.

I feel . . . solid.

Not frantic. Not behind. Solid.

Because for the first time, I’m building this the way my brain actually works.

The way I want to.

One offer.
One folder.
One documentation—this—of the beautiful, messy in-between that is my life.

And a clear target: on or before May 1st.

Not a deadline.
A promise.

By May 1st—or sooner—this word-web will be woven enough to open the front door.

Structure created with so much JOY.
So much ease.
So much care.

Because energy matters.

And whenever someone enters that front door, I want them to feel that creative flow, to absorb some of it, and accept it as their own.

I’m calling this month what it is.

The Unruffling.

Not a launch. Not a sprint. The careful, deliberate smoothing of sheets that have been tangled far too long.

Sixty products found say I know how to create.
May 1st says I know how to finish.

. . .

I wonder if you have files like mine.

A folder called “ideas” or “one day” or just named with a date you no longer remember.

Finished things.
Half-finished things.
Things that only need one more hour to be ready.

Sitting. Waiting. A half written story perhaps.

Not because you couldn’t—but because you kept moving before the last thing was done.

I see you. I am you.

And I’m telling you what I’m telling myself this month.

Open the file.
Finish the thing.
Let it be seen.

. . .

So here’s where we are.

The Frenchman arrived—and is now tending the goat flock while I love on Wooly Lamb.

The bathtub is hooked up.
The neighbors are not going anywhere.
The front door is not yet open.

But the web is being woven with love, intention, and maybe a little lamb milk on my sleeve.

I’ve already been crapped on enough . . .

Just saying—motherhood is no joke. Can’t even imagine it with a real kid.

When The Frenchman leaves and I’m left to
tend the goats,
make the baby bottles,
feed the Wooly Lamb,
and all the others . . .

Plus, write 2,500 words before first light . . .

Yikes.

I still have a few more weeks.

So I’m making the most of this time with him—the one who sits just a few feet away from me and reads, a kitten on his lap—again.

Nosey loves him.

I love him.

So between the real sheets and the word-sheets—there is an unruffling.

And it’s delicious.

Because I’ve learned something about this word-business of mine.

Listening to external voices isn’t for me.

Rushing is what breaks things.

The slowing down—the real, intentional, sometimes-maddening snail’s-pace—that is what builds something worth entering and word-playing in.

That’s the life. That’s the work. That’s the web.

Here’s to 33 then 333 then 3,333 then 33,000 creative souls finding this door when it opens.

Will you walk through it with me?

Just Jill “new mama, bath-less, between French kisses” Stevens

. . .

P.S. The front door isn’t live quite yet. I’ll add the link here the moment it opens.

P.P.S. The Balance Sheet is coming. When the web is woven, the front door wide open, and the numbers ready to be laid bare.

Properly. On a well-made sheet.

And will include things like this in breakdown form:

I sent two emails this week, in between bottle feedings, and invited a group of people to test three offers. More than 51% said yes—which brought in $5,756.

Not too shabby.

Imagine having access to those emails . . . and all the details on each product that sold . . .

If that floats your boat, you’ll love The Balance Sheet.

P.P.P.S. Wooly Lamb has an added—horribly funny—side-dish name.

Wooly Lamb Chop.

I snort laugh every time I say it.

If you want to follow this unfolding story each Friday,
you can subscribe below.

Subscribe now

Just so you know: This is my slice of the web where hot flashes meet cold wine, neck waddles are real, and birthdays feel more like breakdowns. Step into my word-world as I (re)build my writing life in real time.

What if rebuilding a word-business isn’t about building something new — but about opening the rooms of what you’ve already built, one door at a time, until every room is ready to receive a guest?

New here? You may want to start at the beginning . . .

Because it turns out I’m writing a book disguised as a literary business model, disguised as a memoir unfolding in real time.

Sink into this Friday moment—roughly a 14-minute read.

Welcome, you.

The Frenchman made it.

Friday, after I hit publish on Episode 7: The Gold, he called.

Bad news.

His Paris flight had been delayed and he’d miss his island connection in Saint Maarten.

I didn’t let it bother me.

I just word-worked because I knew when he did arrive, I’d be distracted and rightly so.

On Sunday, I kept working, not allowing myself to be sad about a missed night . . .

I’d see him Monday morning.

I’d clean up first, run to the store, buy milk for his tea . . . breathe easy and be totally focused on him.

The man I’ve missed for going on three months now.

And then he landed in SXM and was put on the 5pm flight.

I found out at 3:50pm.

Still working away, nothing picked up, not even showered—no milk for his morning tea in sight.

Oops.

Instead of rushing, getting annoyed, frustrated, upset by all the changes—I simply eased out of work mode . . .

And into being his loving, waiting early at the airport wife.

And there he was. First off the plane. Black ruck sack of a bag slung over his muscled shoulder—filled full with Paris treats for me.

Gorgeous. Fabulous. Mine.

And now, home.

No milk. Not ready. But present nonetheless.

Fully focused on him.

. . .

Now. The honest part.

Last week I told you about my word-business bible.

One Google Doc.
Tabs for every product.
A system that made my shoulders relax just thinking about it.

Yeah, no.

That got unwieldy and huge fast.

So I broke it down. Calmly. No harm. No foul.

Just honestly looking at what works and doesn’t—no longer forcing a square peg in a round word-hole.

So this week—with the Frenchman now very much present and very much distracting in the most delightful way—I adapted.

One doc per product.

One folder per product.
One archive of past messy docs per product folder.

Each product—its own contained world—fully documented from creation to completion.

Which led me straight to the new skill I’m learning alongside finish before you move on, Jill.

A today end.

The web doesn’t end. The web never ends. But my workday does.

And right now I’m in creation mode . . .
which means longer workdays than normal.

Of course, I am—busy creating, building—when The Frenchman arrives.

Honestly, he’d expect nothing less.

(Like me sitting here now on Friday morning, at the kitchen counter, back to the gorgeous sea so I don’t get distracted, writing this episode. Him just over there, reading and watching me with a soft smile.)

Gotta love that man. He who lets me be who I am meant to be.

A creator.

. . .

A creator who has always envisioned a word-web of a business. For years, a decade even, I’ve pictured what I wanted to create . . .

Yet, I have worked with mentors, hired a few of them too, who gave me their ideas, their thoughts, their path.

I have an epiphany about mentors and coaches now too.

I’m only working with someone who is doing the thing I am trying to do because I want an inside look at how they succeed.

Period.

I am no longer listening to any other voice before my own.

I have given away my vision, my sovereignty—a few too many times—my choice and my mistake . . . and wonder if you can relate?

Small, size seven foot stomp from me—no more.

The picture I have in my head is this.

One book or offer leads naturally to ten more.
All interwoven.
All fabulous alone, delicious together.

An EXPERIENCE, not just a word ecosystem.

Every mentor I’ve had encouraged me—some downright told me—one thing. High ticket. One program. One focus.

But that’s not how my brain works.

And I’m done apologizing for that.

I’m no longer trying to change that.

I love being creative.
I love creating.
I never want to stop creating.

And creating looks like a wide variety of activities in my world. Not just writing.

I absolutely love being visual—designing sales pages, book covers, experiences.

I also love the tech—when I do it from start to test to finished.

Here’s what focus looks like in my world.

My front door sounds simple—a $9 ebook.

One door. Come on in.

Except.

That $9 ebook has three other touch points or what marketers call order bumps. And, an after-purchase opportunity—or upsell.

Each of those with their own delivery emails, sales pages, tagging, email sequences—some of which loop back to those same five offers, which means each of those needs standalone sales pages, tagging, and email sequences too.

Is your head ready to explode?

Mine was until I slowed down and went offer by offer.
Which is why my front door is still not open.

That $9 ebook has four other offers attached to it!

Yes, I could remove them, open faster with just one other touch point, but I’m again about the experience I want someone to have . . .

as they come into my world for the first time.

If you’re not familiar with the lingo, an order bump is like a rack of tabloids or a display of candy bars in the checkout line right before you buy that thing you came here to get.

It’s that impulsive ‘add to cart’ offer you can’t resist. (I hope.)

And the upsell, well, you’ve seen it and even heard it if you’ve swung through a MacDonald’s drive-thru. “Would you like to super-size that?”

In my case, it’s a most delicious offer once you make your purchase, something you can “add to your already purchased order” with the click of a button.

Or say no, thank you and move to the thank you or order summary page.

Or in heavy bro marketing cases, go to another offer and another and another.

But that’s not my way.

My way is to create experiences you simply can’t resist—don’t want to resist.

See, last episode when I mentioned helping 33,000 creatives, it triggered a deep-seated memory within me.

I can sell high ticket $4K, $6,500, $10K, even $50K offers off of an ugly Google doc sales page—which is a damn impressive skill, or so I’ve been told.

But I don’t want to.

I want to reach more people. Those who have a dream but can’t or won’t drop multiple or double digit thousands for the privilege.

Creativity is not only for those who can afford it.

Creativity, writing mastery should be available to anyone who desires it.

I want to make magnetic writing, creativity, living a delicious life filled with JOY thousands, hundreds of thousands of individuals.

Like the books I write.

They aren’t read by 100 people and forgotten.

They are read by hundreds of thousands of people—in many languages.

My books, my words live on—tend to be talked about, shared, referenced—and that’s what I want to create here.

A referral based word-business.

Where my $9 ebook, The Magnetic Storytelling Method—the Front Door into my word-web I’ve been talking about—is so damn good, it’s shared, quoted, and found daily.

I’ve had mentors who’ve said you can’t get rich selling a low ticket product.

I call bullshit.

First, I’m not interested in being rich, driving a Tesla, or flying on private planes—although the last is fun and rather nice.

I am interested in building wealth—the wealth that naturally comes when you help others.

The wealth I have experienced writing books that sell for (cough) low ticket prices.

So that $9 ebook, the one that over 2,700 creatives have already found—although I made it rather difficult—has already brought in over $24K.

And now, with a few updates, fixed links on the final pages and a newly designed cover, will continue to bring in money, once this Front Door of mine opens.

A title that will sell and help creatives, writers new and seasoned, for years—possibly decades—to come.

Created once and now automated to hum in the background with structured ease while I feed the rescue goats, play with a kitten, or create a new offer.

Because I told you already about four other offers this 114 page book gives someone access too.

But here’s the thing, it doesn’t end there.

Inside the book there are a few additional opportunities to work with me or enter my word-web.

Plus, in emails that deliver those first five offers, follow up on how they’re doing and provide the needed momentum in the moment—there are paths to more, different, complementary experiences.

Products like 11:11 Magnetic Writing Prompts to keep someone writing daily.

Not the typical “describe your morning” kind. These are feeling prompts. The kind that unlocks something deep inside—a memory that’s been waiting to be written.

So what does that mean?

11:11 needs its own sales page.
Its own tagging.
Its own welcome into the world.
A series of emails . . .

And so does that upsell on my Front Door I mentioned.

Magnetic Stories From Your Ordinary Life—already created, it’s something I’m super proud of and already receiving “mad love” from my 17 beta students.

Inside it includes a 79-page playbook, two stories I wrote (each shared in written form and as audio recordings with commentary), plus a behind-the-scenes video of me editing a real story.

An actual look at how stories come together—not just the polished, publishable version most see.

And that $9 book that started it all—The Magnetic Storytelling Method— is now also a private podcast.

Not an audiobook. A podcast . . .

Imagine being able to search by chapter, by magnetic task.

To return to and listen again and again—In My Magnetic Voice—while on the go, on the commute, or just before you sit to write.

I’m recording it now, chapter by chapter.

Between French kisses.

😉

See what I mean about the web?

One door. Five offers. And those lead to a few more. Forty-seven-ish moving parts.

Every male mentor told me one thing, one focus, high ticket.

But that’s not a door—that’s a hallway.
Or a big city loft.
One wide open space.

If you remember from Episode 6: The Opening, the first book I wrote about the gate that connected two houses. His and hers.

Hers filled with nooks and crannies, wide wrap-around porches, wild gardens and inside oodles of rooms and cozy spaces, places to curl up with a good book or two.

And what I’ve learned from writing professionally for nearly thirty years . . . there are so many people who want that too.

A wild word-world to walk into.

Like the one I imagine.

Like the one I wrote about with that very first novel.

Like the one I currently live on a tropical island, rescuing animals, with a Fabulous Frenchman who comes—and goes.

Who has his own open loft space—one large, clean, neat space.

Like those male mentors shouting high ticket, one product, one focus, one room.

No, thank you.

Here’s what I know.

I am a creative bad ass.

I am wildly prolific.

I am a Jill-of-all-Trades and damn good at many of them . . .
when I finish.

So I am finishing.

It’s a slightly harder skill for me to implement, but not impossible, because I have proof that I finish things.

More than 100 books now—to name but one type of finishing I’ve mastered.

I also know this.

I love building this word-web.

The conditional logic—the if-this-then-that of interconnected offers. It makes my brain fire just as hot as writing a smoking love scene does.

Equally creative.
Just in a different language.
The tech side and the creative side, both lit up, both mine.

I’m doing it all—graphics, design, tech, writing—and finishing.

Could I hire a “doer”?

Yes, but then I’d be doing the thing I dislike.
Explaining, managing, overseeing, fixing.

And even worse, having systems created how someone else thinks . . .
and being left to try to figure it out.

Been there, done that.
Just no.

Instead, if and when the time comes to bring someone in to help with the 100 a month or day orders of my $9 book front door . . .

and the 40% take on order bump one,
30% take on bump two,
20% take on bump three,
and 5% take on the upsell . . .

100 a month to start.
Imagine if 100 a day is where this goes.

All will be documented.

All will be structured for how MY brain fires—and a fab “doer” can simply come aboard my word-train and help support all those orders, all those students who said yes to writing . . .

Mental math moment.

Did you follow those numbers? Because if you did, you’d be calling bullshit on those who say “low ticket doesn’t make you rich” too.

Book sales 100 a month, monthly that’s $3,745, yearly $44,940.

But now 100 book sales a day—this is where it gets a bit hands off delicious. $3,745 per day. $112,350 per month. $1,366,925 per year.

Imagine how many writers I’d be impacting with those numbers . . . and how many more creatures I could rescue!

That’s why I am finally doing this my way—not someone’s version of the right way . . . my way.

That’s true wealth.

Alignment.

That’s the power of a well-created, well-structured, humming in the background word-web.

One $9 door, built right, with the right rooms behind it, becomes magnetic—magical.

And this is exactly what The Balance Sheet is for.

These numbers—all the numbers—in a back room where you can see how it all actually works.

. . .

I thought I wanted to open The Balance Sheet this week—the pay-to-enter back room I mentioned in Episode 7: The Gold.

Real numbers. Real transparency.

The honest accounting of what this word-business costs with earns and loses and gains.

Plus, deep dives into what works and what doesn’t.

But here’s the truth: I didn’t even think about it.

And that’s a good thing. Here’s why.

A new idea landed this week, actually several—as they do, as they always will.

A year-long newsletter.
Daily emails.
Write a book a year.
Genre specific—non-fiction, then romance, then memoir.

Daily guidance, motivation, inspiration. Fabulous.

And then I did something kind of new and oddly wonderful.

The idea went on the list.

Not the calendar. Not yet.

I didn’t take 30 minutes to sketch it out.
I took five to jot it down.

Because an idea list is not a to-do list.

And knowing the difference is giving my creativity a special place, saving my sanity, and protecting my focus, so my word-business can finally take off.

Not distraction free . . . but better.

See, I haven’t even set up a welcome email for new Substack subscribers yet. I haven’t learned much about Substack yet—period.

Only how to post these articles.
And share a few Notes.

That got put to the side—for now.

Not my weekly episodes but the focus needed to create systems and momentums so people can find me.

Right now, I’m writing into the void, not sharing—not because I don’t want to—but because, at this moment, my priority is that Front Door.

While I honor this weekly commitment.

Two word-muscles being worked here—delicious.

That’s why at the time of publishing this article, all traffic has been organic.

I’ve yet to share Between My Sheets via email, social channels or (gasp) word of mouth.

And it’s okay. This too has a spot on my next up idea list.

Sharing this publication, this series AND soon starting The Balance Sheet.

So no. Not this week.

And I’m okay with that.

The Balance Sheet will have its own dedicated moment of creation.

From start to bloody finish.

When it’s time.

And because of that new way of being, it will be created with JOY, with ease, with flow and with solid focus and attention each offer—like each book I write—deserves.

One and FULLY done.

And when The Balance Sheet opens, it’ll be built right—complete, tested, and ready to receive you properly.

Like a well-made bed with hospital corners and a mint on the pillow.

Do they still do that? The mint?

And each month or quarter—however I decide when it’s time to fully flesh this idea out—what will be laid bare on this well-made sheet are the exact numbers.

This not yet complete, not yet shared word-web of mine managed to make $5,243 this week from those

• 17 individuals I mentioned going through The 11 Day Magnetic Writing Experience

• 41 creatives happily beta-enJOYIng two other offers

• 25 working through those 11 Magnetic Writing Prompts with me as their Writing Witness.

While everyone shouts “Launched fast!”—I’m slowing way the hell down.

I’m being intentional.
Structured.
Aligned.

And damn, don’t it feel good.

And those creatives going through these offers in beta this week?

“Love. Love. Love.”

Those are the actual words coming back to me. Day after day.

People feeling empowered to write.
To access their stories.

To get unstuck from the version of themselves that always meant to start but never quite did.

That’s what I’m here for!

That’s why I’m finally creating this word-web of a delicious business my way.

That’s the 33,000.
Not someday.
Starting now.

. . .

Speaking of now . . .

Because you might be wondering about that bubble bath I was so looking forward to last Saturday night . . .

I can share that those best laid plans were waylaid.

My plumber came down with a headcold, poor thing, and hooked all the things up on Tuesday.

A working bathtub—on my front porch.

Weird. Cool. Quirky. He thought it was awesome.

I hope he’s not a peeping Tom.

Which leads me to a little dilemma . . .

My above-neighbors arrived the same day.

Sigh. Seriously.

While my house is ultra private and somewhat hidden from the road, I am on a hillside with a house above me—barely visible through my trees.

And one below me, not visible through the tropical lushness currently at all.

These above-me-neighbors—who I have never met, who have been to their place once in the past year—chose my bathtub hookup day to arrive.

And since my bathtub faces their house . . . which I can barely see . . . it still derailed me from sinking into those silky, bubble filled waters for now.

Especially given the full, bright pink moon we enJOYed that same night.

So no bath below a star filled sky just yet.

But soon.

But it’s there. Hooked up. Waiting.

The silky, almost-hot water is going nowhere.

And the carpenter is coming back for the privacy screens—at some point.

This crazy goat lady—with half a dozen cats, a bathtub on her front porch, and a gorgeous Frenchman inside—can wait one more week.

I can almost feel it . . .

. . .

And him.

Fab. Wonderful. Utterly distracting in only the best ways.

And being wrapped up in his arms again makes the bathtub a second place reward.

All in all it’s been a productive week, a full week, an intimate week of being with my man and coming home to myself.

The word-gate is open. The web is being built.

The front door will be live—before mid-week—because I’m now in flow, solid, sovereign, working with structured ease.

And damn does it feel good.

Here’s to 33,000 creative souls soon finding and entering my word-front door.

Will you be one of them?

Just Jill “Jill-of-all-trades, between French kisses” Stevens

💜

P.S. The front door isn’t live quite yet—but it’s close. I’ll add the link here the moment it opens.

P.P.S. By the way, while the Frenchman settled in, I ran into town to my favorite restaurant—owned by a friend of mine—and managed to snag a carton of milk for his morning (pre-store opening) tea.

I love small town-island-living . . . where everyone kinda knows your name.

P.P.P.S. Episode 9: Yet to be titled—The bath. The numbers. The Frenchman, still here.

If you want to follow this unfolding story each Friday,
you can subscribe below.

Subscribe now

Just so you know: This is my slice of the web where hot flashes meet cold wine, neck waddles are real, and birthdays feel more like breakdowns. Step into my word-world as I (re)build my writing life in real time.

What if (re)building a writing life isn’t the neat, curated thing you map out on a whiteboard . . . but the moment you stop stepping over the broken thing and simply—fix it?

New here? You may want to start at the beginning . . .

Because it turns out I’m writing a book disguised as a literary business model, disguised as a memoir unfolding in real time.

Sink into this Friday moment—roughly a 9-minute read.

Welcome, you.

I am a prolific creator. Not just writer. Creator. And a quiet one at that.

This week it hit me hard that I am a prolific, quiet creator. Not just a writer.

Yes a prolific writer—one who writes 2,500 words before the sun graces the sky, words that are mostly for me . . .

But I also create offers that never see the light of day.

Some half done.
Some ready to ship.

All sharing a common trait—digital dust.

Because I am a prolific creator who starts more than she finishes.

And lack the skill of follow through (at times).

And what I know, have always known, is that the fortune is in the follow through.

I get excited by an idea but instead of seeing it all the way to done, automated, working completely, I’ve had 7 other ideas.

And decided 3 are definitely yes-now things that need my focus too.

What’s interesting is I started the week thinking this was wrong, horrible, a problem and now, ending the week, I see it as a flipping superpower—under the right conditions.

Just like I always have multiple drafts going—usually three books at once and I work on the one that calls out to me—a book is contained.

It’s words on a page until it’s done.

A product, an offer, a—well, if you read Episode 6: The Opening—you saw that overwhelming list. A product is so not contained.

- - -

So this week I’ve done an audit of my Front Door offer which led me down a lovely rabbit hole of realizing—

Holy shit, I have a gold mine that no one has access to.

So many wonderful words not shared, ebooks, PDFs, classes, thoughts . . .

Some half done, many completely done on the “creation” side but never shared.

Sigh.

But even as I sigh, I end this week feeling the shift in me. Because it’s not that I don’t want to share any more, it’s just I was missing the structured ease, the systematic approach to getting all these amazing creations in front of people.

A book has a natural, repeatable distribution path to place it in a reader’s hopefully word-hungry hands.

And for me, Becks handles that side of things with ease—and gets a nice chunk of any and all paydays for taking it off my plate.

But this word-business, even selling a PDF “book” online requires so much more than just creation, editing, cover, compiling—done.

That’s what’s been missing—a rinse and repeat path to getting all this gold inside my digital value out into happy, interested hands.

It hit me too, that part of my lack was listening to those (mostly bro) voices still in my head, saying things like “launch fast.”

Yeah, no. That doesn’t work for me.

Launch fast has meant sharing my word-creations, offers, products without a complete system in place.

It creates issues, chaos and the need to fix things because I “launch too fast” with half tech-done things.

And when something breaks or an email doesn’t go out and someone is waiting for it, the retracing of tech steps to figure it out is what makes me question everything.

Why don’t you just write books, Jill? It’s so much easier.

But the answer, I feel called to help people access their voice, their words.

I remember sharing with a mentor—who also happened to be male—that I felt called to help 33,000 people.

He laughed at me.

Told me not to share that in my sales copy or anywhere.

A bit crushed, I remember also feeling grateful his laughter interrupted me before I completed the full sentence . . .

I feel called to help 33,000 people, then 333,000 and—maybe, somehow, some way—my words, my work will touch 33 million people.

That moment was more than a decade ago, nearly two, and yet I remember it like it was yesterday.

And I know the power of a story, of words.

Heck, my words are in millions of copies of books across genres—impacting the lives of people I will never know I touched.

So now, to reach people, to impact and move them, as me, in the sunlight, that’s worth the discomfort of sharing.

That’s worth getting out of my own chaotic way.
That’s worth finally finding my structured ease system.

Not high ticket sales.
Not sales calls.
Not hustle.
Not bro marketing.
Not daily emails.

Instead a web of opportunities at a variety of price points that allow me to impact those first 33,000 people.

So this is me reclaiming my once energizing statement and no longer willing to allow the influence of another to derail me.

This is me working how I work best.

Sometimes live.
Sometimes evergreen.

Always creating from a place of JOY and ease.

- - -

Now, when I originally ran The JOYful Journey live as a 33 day writing challenge—meaning each morning I woke up and wrote that days email and lesson and sometimes story-share example—it worked.

It wasn’t meant to be done and automated—that came after.

And of course with snags because of my lack of follow through . . .

So this week, I slowed down.

I removed those voices from my head and I focused on finishing one thing to completion and documenting it all.

Not easy for me, but a skill I’m happily learning.

Slowing the creation down to document the steps, so every little thing gets done, was not easy because all these ideas fired—just like they always do.

So I wrote them down on an idea list that I kept open and stayed focused.

Because little things that break have—in the past—derailed half a day or more and sucked the JOY right out of this word-business.

- - -

To give you a taste, this week was about

Editing a book The Magnetic Storytelling Method, not to add more content but to make sure links inside weren’t broken. A few were.

Also, to clarify references—some had to go as they no longer made sense.

To add the actual next path steps someone can take after reading the book.

I can go on and on, but that led to the redesign of the cover—needed no but yes as it matches who I am now.

With that done, there is the need to review emails that go with the book, test delivery links and figure out the path someone takes from that book.

I could be making this more complex than it is—but slowing down showed me all the gaps—and led to some great ideas.

The addition of an audio recording of the book which I’m currently doing chapter by chapter, task by task, as a private podcast.

So instead of a three hour audio, this is a searchable, return-to reference—a podcast the listener can access on the go, at any time.

And it’s so fun—even though it’s learning new tech and adding a system to my business.

But it’s a system I believe I will use again and again with all my books.

From there, the idea for a mini email experience offer surfaced that mirrored the tasks in the book.

So often reading is all we do, but the real work is in the doing—in this case, the writing.

And even though this wasn’t about creating, but clearing up and organizing—this idea was too perfect to pass up.

So I chose to go for it—from start to finish.

Eleven emails written, and no, AI did not write them, plus a welcome email—all in one afternoon.

Not only that, the next morning in 45 minutes I wrote a sales page and an email offering this experience to a segment of people who have purchased the book—The Magnetic Storytelling Method—in the past.

By the end of the day 21 people clicked the link, signed up for The 11 Day Magnetic Momentum Experience—were immediately gifted the updated book and received the first day’s writing task email the next day.

Wow, writing this makes me realize I created a ton this week AND actually “launched fast” but with guardrails of documented-till-done systems and absolutely no bro energy.

Just a simple offer-ask—quietly done and not to everyone.

Those 21 people currently going through at a steal-of-a-deal pricing makes the extra, unplanned work so worth it. Because now, the feedback is coming in on day four of this eleven day experience.

Some have shared how empowered they feel, how motivated to write, and I get to witness them in action.

Which led to another idea to actually Witness their writing of this 11 day experience.

Yes, another idea.

I warned you at the start of this episode that I am a prolific creator and well, I wasn’t kidding, now was I?

- - -

Imagine for less than the cost of a dinner (on this island, for one) but perhaps in other locations for two—you could share your daily words and know I’m there receiving them, reading them, witnessing your writing.

And sometimes even responding.

I gave myself 90 minutes to write an email offering this idea to those in The 11 Day Experience and set up the backend details.

Twelve people of the 21 said yes to having me as their writing witnessed.

That’s 57% saying yes to that idea—Your Writing Witness—one that only ended up taking me 28 minutes to put together, document and release from start to finish.

I could go on and share about the creation of two other products this week— as I was cleaning up my offers, completing things systematically, and having fun in the process—but I’ll just allow you to see for yourself when my “front door” opens.

It’s actually exciting and calming to now have the ability to wildly create but in a structured manner simply because I’m documenting it as I go.

And the numbers, they don’t lie. To get a 57% yes to one email is next crazy good when most bro numbers say 10%, 20% and if you’re lucky and super good 30% take rate on an offer or upsell.

No more learning what others are doing and how they do it.

I have proof—time and time again—that I rock this when I do it my way.

When I lean into structured ease.

When I rein in the dramatic chaos.

When I complete things.

Which is making me imagine how much impact all my digital gold will have once, dusted off and released with JOY into the world.

- - -

And makes me wonder, would people be interested in a deeper dive of Between My Sheets—like The Balance Sheet.

A place for real numbers behind what this week—or this month—built.

A different room.
A deeper experience.

Utter transparency—the numbers, the expenses, the profits, the losses—when it comes to running a word-business.

One I’m opening here as a paid extension of Between My Sheets.

Yes, another idea, another product, another offer.

How exciting.

I need to let it marinate, allow it to form, and if it’s a sacral yes for me—give it a 90 minute window to create and document.

But first, I’m off to finish that front door entrance into my word-world and, fingers crossed, have it live and kicking for people to find come Sunday.

For now, I have two treats to look forward to as rewards for a week well spent.

A working bathtub Saturday night and the arrival of the Frenchman Sunday, last flight.

Before the Frenchman arrives, it looks like I will be able to sink into a long awaited bubble bath as my Saturday treat and reward for the week.

I can already feel the caress of that silky, almost hot, water.

And in preparation, yesterday when a carpenter came to talk about the needed gates, we first chatted about how to create a privacy nook for the bathtub area which is outdoors in a rather unique location on my front porch.

I know, weird.

But it’s where the hot and cold water are and when they redid my bathroom, somehow the tub was forgotten about and a bench went in instead.

Sigh.

But gosh-damn it, I want to take a bath so I’m okay being the crazy goat lady, who also has half dozen cats, a traveling Frenchman AND a bathtub on her front porch hidden by planters and vines—

and hmmm, sounds kind of divine!

And The Frenchman . . .

While I’m excited about his return, I’m staying focused for now.

Episode 8: The French Kiss will tell you how that all went.

Just Jill “oh la la, The Frenchman’s on his way” Stevens

If you want to be notified when new episodes go live each Friday,
you can subscribe right here.

Subscribe now

Just so you know: This is my slice of the web where hot flashes meet cold wine, neck waddles are real, and birthdays feel more like breakdowns. Step into my word-world as I (re)build my writing life in real time.

What if rebuilding a writing life isn’t this neat, curated thing you map out on a whiteboard . . . but the moment you finally admit what’s been quietly running the show underneath?

New here? You may wish to start at the beginning.

Because it turns out I’m writing a book disguised as a literary business model, disguised as a memoir unfolding in real time.

This episode is a 11 minute read.

Welcome, you.

Two things happened this week that shocked the hell out of me.

As I write this, I’m thinking it’s about time for that third shock to land. I’m not superstitious, simply bound to the number three.

Like the three baby frogs I saved this morning while writing before first light.

Back to those shocks to my system.

First, in cleaning up my digital messes and creating simple systems—I noticed something.

My one-and-done offers are crazy lucrative.

Deleting duplicate sales pages and grabbing checkout links, I noticed something interesting.

The numbers.

In a few clicks I found the “All time” sales data on a product and nearly spit out my coffee.

One audio—a 16 minute meditation I created on my laptop, in this house, in one day, just a few years ago—has made more than $27,000.

That number shocked me—and here’s why.

While it’s not much to live on over the course of two or three years—heck, not even sure that covers hay for the goats for that long!

Yeah, they can eat and hay here is crazy expensive . . . but I love my goats.

But it’s also not my only one-and-done offer.

Like a book, it’s written once—and then it’s done.

Meaning, it’s my one focus, my one delight, my one world until it’s done. And when it’s done-done—that’s it. It sells and sells.

But it only sells with the right forever-running structure in the background.

Thank you, Becks.

Although she rarely hums—as she’s more the F-bomb dropping type—but giving credit where credit is due, she’s the very structure that sells my books.

So my book writing works. I write till done. She takes over and sells my words.

While that’s happening, I one-and-done another book.

But flip to a word-based business, there are a lot of moving parts that most “teachers” or “gurus”—Gosh, please don’t even call me the last—never fully reveal.

The how.

The how of building a container that will sell and sell and sell.

Because, let’s face it, unless you are selling and money is rolling in, you’re not running a business but playing in what can become an expensive hobby.

So while I have always believed the how is none of my business—that things will flow, work out, and come together . . . in this case, just no.

The how is my current work.

How did I make $27K+ from a 16-minute audio meditation that people love after pressing play?

• I spend maybe four hours creating the audio.

• Wrote the script.

• Recorded my voice.

• Bought music.

• Edited the music with my voice file.

• Played with the volume and fade and reverb for too long.

• Wrote a sales page

• Put the sales page up on Samcart

• Wrote a welcome email

• Scheduled the welcome email and link to audio file inside email autoresponder—(a must for a word-centered business)

• Created tags to connect the sales page, checkout, autoresponder so upon purchase that email triggers and automatically sends

• Wrote a follow up email

• Wrote a feedback ask email

• Scheduled those in Kit

• Created a mini sales page as an “order bump” to add to another product checkout page—The Magnetic Storytelling Method: Not a Writing Manual—a Way Back to Your Voice

• Tested both sales/checkout pages in Samcart

• Put a few links to the audio inside the ebook so readers could say yes later if they missed the “order bump”

• Wrote a few emails and send them over time to my subscribers

And I’m sure there are ten other things I did—that at this moment evade me—but this gives you the gist . . . and me the realization of why half the time I don’t finish my one-and-done creations unless it’s a book.

I mean look at this linear list—the mix of hats to wear—from creative to technical and back again.

And I can do both jobs—but rarely well, it seems, for the simple reason that I miss something.

Or I have a new brilliant idea.

Just this week I have created a new front door—a way for people to come into my word-world and hopefully feel welcomed, seen, and heard.

The new gateway involved taking that same book, cleaning up broken links, refreshing the offers, changing the subtitle, new cover.

Sigh.

But of course that’s not all.

I decided to make it an experience—so that meant recording the audio and building an eleven-day email journey to mirror the tasks inside it.

And all the tech that goes along with this shift.

It’s not hard, nor all that complicated.
It’s simply a lot of moving pieces to complete—and not walk away from mid-build.

A book, though? That’s me writing until the last page.

Then it’s mine again for edits—after Becks has taken it, read it, had a pass with an editor I trust, and hands it back to me.

With a dreaded deadline.

And because I don’t love deadlines, I get it done so it stops looming over me like a metaphoric ax.

Becks handles edits, cover, contracts, timeline—until my author copy lands in my mailbox.

And once that book is on the shelf, I’m pretty much out.

I’m already writing something new. Probably have been for a while.

Because until this point, I have chosen to be behind the scenes.

No interviews, podcasts, media at all. No bookstore readings, signings or fan meet and greets.

Which are all lovely . . .

However, they also detract from the most important job a writer has.

To write.

Because the more you build a library of words, the more likely you are to be successful as a writer.

One book is great, but three is better.

Meaning, someone likes a book—what do they do?

They immediately search for other books by the same author. And if they really liked that first read, they buy all the others.

One by one or in an impulsive “add all to cart” moment.

So books actually start to become their own marketing machine.

Which is what I created haphazardly a few years back with that very profitable $27K+ audio.

A create-it-once—deliciously good thing—and allow people to find it again and again and again by dropping it inside of books, front door offers, and even linking it here at the bottom of this episode.

Take my desire for structured ease . . .

My inability to find that story I know I wrote about the time I made my 6th grade teacher wait while I finished the very last line of the very last page and then calmly, proudly handed her all 100 pages of the story she’d asked us to write.

Or my lack of linear thinking needed to complete all the bloody steps so a one-and-done offer can be released without a tech break.

Or my need for a system to have all my details, links, thoughts—but please God, not another spreadsheet.

Sigh.

So that’s a huge win this week—I stopped looking for the right system and created my own.

A book.

A Google Doc with tabs as the product.

Meaning every single tab is its one chapter, entity, product. And together they make up my word-web of a business.

I finally created something from a place I get, feel comfortable in, understand.

Took me a while to turn off all the bro marketing noise in my head, but now it’s done.

And my shoulders are finally relaxing.

It’s such a delight to pull up this ONE document I’ve dubbed—Jill’s Word-Business Web 2026—and see all my products coming into organized existence.

Plus, I can now actually find what I need when I need it.

That’s as delicious a feeling as sinking into a bubble bath under the stars—which will happen this weekend in my newly installed bathtub if the plumber finishes the job.

Fingers crossed.

I could really use a “Calgon take me away” moment.

But that coming-together tabbed doc of mine is tiding me over until I can sink into those silky waters.

Now let’s get back to that second shock of mine before the third one lands and I forget about it.

. . .

A new friend who recently moved to this remote island with his partner found me online.

Well, since I sent him a link to my website so he could check out my yet-to-be-publicized idea of—“sponsor a goat”—it wasn’t hard.

I mean, the URL makes it pretty easy—and me saying yes to his follow-up ask of—“Are you the joyful writer?”—made him my instant stalker.

Let’s call him Lippy because he has a mouth on him and is funny as can be.

But what was really interesting was my reaction to him saying—”I’m going to subscribe!”

Instantly, without thought, my response—”I’ll just delete you.”

Gasp.

What?!
Why?!

His response was priceless. “You’d do that?”

Without hesitation, “Yep.”

Oh.My.Word.

What is my issue with sharing, being out there, not letting people who know me read my words.

This really got me thinking as I fixed a gate on the farmette. A gate that Buddha Kiss Me Sigh loves to headbutt for hours.

One that was going to give way at any moment.

A gate I’ve been barricading shut with a crossbar 2x4 for weeks now which requires me to walk around in my jean overalls carrying a drill whenever I want to visit—or feed—the flock.

So with Gracey Girl, a very curious goat, by my side, I managed to fix the nearly pulled-away hinge, rework the locks—yes, multiples—and do some nearly meditative thinking.

When I wasn’t removing blue screws from Gracey Girl’s mouth.

I started to reflect on the contradiction that is me.

I remembered working with Autumn, my self-publishing editor, on the first title I published in my name—and telling her no personal stories.

Only to turn around and write deeply personal essays—share vulnerable moments that moved her and others to tears.

And tell her the book needs more stories.

My writing tends to be deeply personal and yet I’m terribly private. So much so that I once wondered if I was possibly experiencing Vanishing Twin Syndrome.

The phenomenon that happens in the womb where one twin dies and the other absorbs cells, DNA, and even presence.

That would explain my two-headed, walking/talking/hiding yet sharing deeply personas.

But while that might make a fascinating book, chances are there’s not a medical reason for why I said what I said.

And meant it.

That instinctive reaction to banish someone wanting to subscribe to me—my words.

. . .

But seriously, what does it reveal about how I’ve operated for thirty years—behind curtains, under pseudonyms, keeping your word-world private even from my husband?

It says I’ve known myself so well that I designed my life to fit how I best operate.

Instead of making it wrong or bad . . . it was how I chose to be in the world.

And yet now, why am I choosing visibility?

It’s obvious I’m not comfortable with it.

Yet.

But I’m doing it. I’m here, writing this, every Friday, and not deleting when you—when anyone—subscribes.

Maybe because I know so many people—especially now—might need a quiet creator in their corner.

Someone who knows her why—

I write because I must.
I write because I am a writer, a storyteller.

It’s simply part of my DNA.

Someone who knows she doesn’t have to step into the spotlight to be successful—

And yet I’m choosing to be more visible in the hopes that I can help those creatives who need to be witnessed, supported, encouraged.

The $27K meditation worked because I built a solid gate into my world.

One that didn’t break. And when I shared that entry point, people said YES to my audio and more.

With delight, with ease, automatically—like sales for my books simply come in because of the structure and systems Becks has in place.

I actually succeeded in creating that for myself—and didn’t even realize it until I saw that number—$27K.

And there it is. My third shock.

I have done this well.
I can do this.

I created something, followed my linear checklist—connected every T and I—and the notifications came in.

“You’ve made a sale!” Day and night.

I had a small humming system working.

And that’s worth celebrating, acknowledging, and sharing.

That audio has now helped more than 1,000 people!

Holy cow.

That makes me stop and put my hand to my heart, deep breath in, deep breath out, and realize just how worth it—sharing, being visible—actually is.

And to realize, after a 60-second dance party around my kitchen counter, that the reason it didn’t do better, didn’t help 3,000 or 9,000 or even 11,000 people over the last three years is because I didn’t share enough.

One-and-done only works if you leave the gate open.

The gate wasn’t broken. I just stopped tending it.

I’m actually not building something new.

That’s what that $27K+ shocker showed me.

I’m returning to something I’ve known how to do, can do, and have done well.

I did it once. It worked.

I just need the system that keeps me from forgetting it exists.

And this series, Between My Sheets, is unexpectedly part of that system.

With an episode written in real time on Thursday and Friday mornings—for a Friday noon EST deadline—it’s forcing me to reflect weekly on
what I need to do,
want to do,
have done,
and whether or not anything I chose worked.

That reflection is real-time, powerful, and surprise-surprise, keeping me on track.

These episodes are becoming the word-glue holding this chapter together.

And when the Frenchman comes next weekend, after months apart, it will be up to me to not get distracted by his sweet presence—not to miss this most powerful accountability setup I’ve accidentally, unknowingly created.

Because the only thing that ever stopped the gate from working was me.

Me getting sidetracked.
Me forgetting what I built.

But not this time.

Just Jill “finally leaving the word-gate open” Stevens

In this episode, I mention my first title written in my name, with its many personal shares, and the audio behind that shocking-to-me profit.

The Book: Create Your Most Delicious Life

The Audio: Constant Creative Flow

If you’d like to follow this unfolding story, you can subscribe below.

Subscribe now

Just so you know: This is my slice of the web where hot flashes meet cold wine, neck waddles are real, and birthdays feel more like breakdowns. Step into my word-world as I (re)build my writing life in real time.

What if rebuilding a writing life isn’t this neat, curated thing you map out on a whiteboard . . . but the moment you finally admit what’s been quietly running the show underneath?

Welcome, you.

Here’s what surprised me most this week.

Last Friday I wrote that I needed a frame for my web of words, ideas, offers, products—prolific madness.

I desired a cozy, comfy word-home.

A space where I could create things once, document them, and be done.

Ah, what a lovely thought.

Only . . . no.

That desired machine humming in the background so my WORDS can be seen, read, found—even—

the one I started creating with passion, purpose, precision . . . perfectly imperfect.

My idea of—
Step one. One home. One container.

A desire to stop reactionary FIXING of something I half-created and never fully tech-finished.

I wrote this last Friday—

“It’s one place, one login, and no longer a patchwork quilt of never-ending systems “zapped” together with digital duct tape and a prayer.

One place I can create, build, link into and out of—like Charlotte’s Web.”

And I was creating it until I went to make it all work together and realized this oh-so-one-shop MASCULINE structure was slowly stifling my creativity, my JOY, and leading me down the narrow path of hair-pulling frustration.

After all that build-out and deliciousness, I realized my error and pulled the hot-damn plug.

What I was creating—my vision of a creative web—was never going to work in and on this container.

So I made the fire-fast decision of stopping—letting it go.

And only bemoaned my week of behind-the-scenes work for two heavy minutes before letting that, too—go.

It was either that or stick my finger in the socket and fry my creativity away.

Ah, hell to the no, never that.

And during my normal morning 3:33AM writing time,
staring at a blank document
and ready to dish about my own frustration,
a sentence landed so loudly
I actually whispered it into the dark—

You’re exhausted, frustrated, and drowning in systems that are not built for how your brain works.

Let’s slow this way down.
And let’s correct the big misunderstanding at the center of all this—

YOU ARE NOT TRYING TO BUILD A BRO BUSINESS.

Mic. Drop. Moment.

. . .

Right there, in black and white, on my dimly lit screen—
leaving me feeling a bit black and blue.

I made my container-thought decision based on a very masculine train of thought.

Founding member, grandfathered in, access to everything.
Save hundreds—possibly thousands.
One price—never shall it increase.

And tapped out of my intuitive knowing completely.

I mean, I’ve had this system sitting untouched for nearly a decade—not a smart financial decision, but no judgement needed.

I’m self-judgy enough in this moment, and I bet you, too, have at least one subscription running—billing monthly or yearly—that you never even touch.

Am I warm . . . Lovely Reader?

Not judging.
Simply throwing you a rope so you, too, don’t drown.

But back to the business of decisions.

And yes, I truly believe good ones are best made outside of feeling-ness—in my real estate dealings and book contract negotiations—that works.

In this painting of a creative life—just no.

So I’m giving up my “grandfathered-in lovely money savings plan” and copy/pasting, starting over again on a platform that is for

artists
creatives
people with visual aesthetics.

A space that does not make me want to cut off a limb—someone else’s, that is.

And it’s flowing—again.
With JOY.

No more frustration.

Where I’m starting . . .

One by one, I’m going through all the many gems in my files.
One by one, I’m building each one a SOLID, create-it-once home.

And it feels good.

Once set up, it can live on and on—same links, same path—documented so my messy-middle brain won’t forget.

And my words can finally—with structured ease—be of service.

Because my words need a dedicated home and a built-in system of new-to-me eyes finding them.

Because there’s not just Between My Sheets—but other ideas like Confessions of a Ghostwriter and Tiny Hooves—all those delightful Goat Tales.

Ideas are not hard to come by over here.

In fact, I’m constantly swimming in them—which I love.

However, when that backstroke—
face tilted to the sun,
allowing flow from all sides to slide over me,
like the warm glide of a tropical sea on my bare skin

shifts into a toe-pulling undercurrent—
a constant, unrelenting treading of water—
when things half
come undone . . .

that is downright exhausting.
And JOY-stealing.

But hot damn, there’s relief in finding a foundation in which to word-plant them and allow them to grow.

I am not meant to force myself into anyone else’s structure.

And it’s high time to stop trying.

Trying is so disempowering.
I know this—soul-deep.

Just like I know . . .

I finish when I have a structure.

I thrive when I have a container.

I share when I have a place that feels like me.
(Well—the side of me that isn’t flipping chaotic!)

Now, let’s return to why this matters . . .

I love writing these Friday words.

I enJOY being unequivocally saucy, spicy—slightly potty—me.

I love writing these messy, intimate, vulnerable sheets from the bone-deep honesty of lived experience.

Intimate storytelling that’s like a best-friend, secret-share.

After the read, we might just have a pillow fight—or some late-night pillow talk.

That’s the writer I’ve evolved into.

My voice has shifted from naughty romance novels and family-saga trilogies, from nonfiction projects for naturopathic doctors and memoirs for artists, to my own lived, often deeply personal experiences.

It’s often raw.
It’s definitely intimate.

And honestly, a bit intimidating—
to be so bare and word-revealed between these sheets.

Yet also revealing.

Because this week, it hit me like a whispered accusation and a promise all in one—

I have mostly sucked at sharing.

(Notice my intentional use of past tense here, for I’m not purple penning this statement into future me.)

Becks has been my life raft in a sea of endless creativity.
With her at the helm, I get to play in words endlessly.

She has been the reason I finished anything in my publishing life.

She held the frame I refused—or couldn’t seem—to build for myself.

And that book I did publish? The first one ever in my real name . . .

Only possible because I have a lovely editor, Autumn who gently—and magically—pushed the project through to “the end.”

And well, I couldn’t not publish it and let her—or the readers needing those 141 essays—down after all her hard, beautiful work.

I didn’t realize how much I needed a Becks, how big a part she’s played in my word-success.

Not until I realized it’s been nearly three years since I released that book.

The follow-up—more essays and a companion journal—is sitting done in a digital folder.

Formatted.
Cover done.
ISBN paid for and assigned.
Ready to print and be read.
Only me bottlenecking its release.

For years now.

Head. Desk. Ouch.

Becks has demanded more than once that I stop this “side thing”—this my-words, my-voice, my-way chapter in my life.

And when it became clear this wasn’t a passing phase, she switched gears:
“Just f—king give it all to me, Jill. I’ll make you a household name, a word-f—king star.”

And that right there was her misstep . . .
or was it?

Because that woman knows me.

And in our early years, knew me better than I knew myself.

I don’t want—have never wanted—to be word-famous.

For some, that’s the dream.
For me, a bloody nightmare.

I just want to write—damn it.
[insert foot stomp]

That emailed line—“I just want to write”—the one I received thirteen times from those who read my words, is what started this journey.

And it’s true.
For them.
And for me.

Here’s the rub—the ones who email me usually attach the question—

How?

How to just write and also get paid.

I don’t teach frameworks.

I write—and perhaps teach—from lived experience.

I am a transformational storyteller.

And because of how things have always flowed for me, the “also get paid” part will simply come.

People love to pay me for my words.

The how is none of my business.

But man, have I made it hard for people to do that in this season of my life.

Honestly, how can they pay me when I don’t share?

How can they read my words when I don’t publish them?

When I don’t finish these dozens of projects sitting in my virtual cloudy drive-sky?

When I can’t find the story I know I’ve written—once, twice, three times—I swear—the one about writing my first 100-page story in sixth grade while making the teacher wait.

And then it hit me.

. . .

What I’m doing here is bigger than me—bigger than words placed between the sheets.

Not a newsletter.
Not a funnel.
Not a strategy.

I’m writing a book disguised as a literary business model, disguised as a memoir unfolding in real time.

A living document of becoming.
A movement made of quiet pages.

My creative rebuild might serve someone else—
not because I’m teaching,
but because I’m telling the damn—often messy—truth.

Maybe this is the truth you need right now.
A truth you’ve been circling.
A truth you’re finally ready to hear.

This week, I stood at the crossroads of power and doubt.

I’m not afraid to admit it.

Yes, doubt.

Doubt whispered . . .

Is this Between My Sheets—tongue-in-cheek, naughty, fun word-sharing—narcissistic? Is it really something that I should continue?

Power whispered back . . .

Hell no! It’s fun, it’s informative, it shines light on the messy middle so people don’t feel so alone.

Writing from lived experience is NOT narcissistic.
It is the ONLY way your people—your readers—trust you.

You are not writing about yourself to spotlight Jill.
You are writing about yourself to hand someone else the flashlight.

And then the whisper built up within—a who-are-you-to-question this laundry list of rapid-fire beats.

What if the people who need this find it?

What if this is the beginning of something real, powerful, empowering?

What if the creative, structured home you’ve never built—been all but begging for—begins here, one Friday at a time?”

And then—I laughed—thinking about Becks, hearing her voice whiplash out.

Write. Share. F—king repeat, Jill.”

I don’t have Becks’ energy behind this project—
so I’m stepping into my own quiet, less F-bomb-dropping badass.

Slowly. Softly.
One episode at a time.

I’m continuing Between My Sheets past the four promised episodes—obviously. (wink)

Not because it’s strategic.
Not because it’s smart.
Not because someone told me to.

But because continuing this living memoir matters.

Because writing this movement in real time brings me JOY.

Because these Friday words feel like a calling, not content.

Because you are here.
Reading.
Witnessing.
Feeling your truth reflected in mine.
And responding.

Thank you, Sage. Your words reached me. Do let me know how your wife (can’t wait to one day meet her) liked my book!

Gotta love it when the wife steals your former teacher’s book—the one you ordered to read yourself.

Oh, and yes, I was a teacher in the public school system for almost five years.

A place where I created something called Bellwork.

A chalked line, a topic, a thought each and every day—a place from which to start.

One page.
Ten minutes.
Begin.

And before the bell even rings—hence, Bellwork.

Oh, this sounds so deliciously familiar—although now it’s eleven divine minutes on the clock—go.

I created this container—hot damn I can build structure—so I could take attendance and learn all my high school students’ names and faces.

I never realized the impact this daily writing assignment would have on my students. Honestly, I was just trying to make my life easier—I’d never planned on being a teacher.

But soon, like clockwork, my students would enter, often before the bell, and always knew exactly what to do.

No watching for me, for directions, for permission to begin.
No me trying to hush a mob of twenty-five teens.

The moaning of “One-whole-page, Ms. Stevens? Seriously?” turned into heads down, pens flying across paper daily.

It led to discussions, and them asking for privacy—me not to read all their daily words.

Because, of course, at first I tried to read them all—every single day—but that was a lot of pages to daily-read before any assignments, quizzes, or dreaded tests.

So a system developed out of discussion—out of a mutually built relationship.

A star at the top of their page meant I’d honor-system not read those daily words. And I didn’t.

Bellwork, much like my weekly Between My Sheets, is a building of trust, a path of expression, a space to share—deeply.

Those students, years later, thanked me for all that writing work.
It served them for they were never at a loss for words.

And I trust you will never be at a loss reading my words.

That you will always receive something impactful, meaningful, helpful—maybe even insightful—from Between My Sheets.

And I’m thankful for this relationship.

For our writer-and-reader handhold across digital sheets.

So much like Bellwork created a container, a frame—I’ll be creating the same with Between My Sheets.

No, there won’t be homework or even Bellwork! Promise.

A presence.
A path.
A place to belong.

And maybe feel at home.

Those who step into that invitation for something more intimate—you aren’t buying content.

You’re entering a living memoir.
A movement.
A truth.

A weekly touchpoint of “I see you. I’m here. Let’s write our way through this messy, magical, momentous moment.”

The ones who need these words—you’ll know.

You’ll feel it.
A ripple.
A shiver.
A sigh.

When you feel that quiet longing—come on inside.

I could debate:

Will people care?
Will anyone even read this?

I know these thoughts haunt many a writer—many I’ve worked with over the years.

But for me, here’s what I know.

. . .

Some will read.
Some will care.
Some won’t.

And a moment will come when many wander in months from now and binge-read—a long weekend roll between my word-sheets.

How fun a thought . . .

The only question that matters is this.

Will I care enough to keep going?

An interesting ask.

My answer—hell yes.

Yes, because writing these words brings me home.
Yes, because this is how I serve the quiet creators.
Yes, because I believe in stories told in real time.

Movements begin with a handful of people who whisper,
“Yes, I’m in.”

Maybe that’s already you.

That’s how movements, change, growth begin.

Here we are—
in the soft (not-so-messy, at the moment) middle.

Between My Sheets isn’t ending.
It’s deepening.

And next Friday, I’ll be here.
Sheet open.
Purple pen lifted.
Ready.

It may be in its intended new home on Substack,
or it may still be in this form . . .

With The Frenchman’s return, I’m giving myself a bit of grace, space.
And that feels delicious and divine.

To allow.

To simply ease into this moment, this decision, like one slides with delight between those freshly washed, freshly made sheets.

Maybe rebuilding a writing life isn’t a tidy white-vision-board plan after all.

Maybe it’s just showing up—Friday after Friday—with the sheets open, the purple pen ready, laying it all bare.

I’m all in.

Just Jill “patting the space beside me—come on in” Stevens

If you’d like to follow this unfolding story,
you can subscribe below.

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Want to keep reading?
Episode 6: The Opening is ready and waiting for you to enJOY.

Just so you know: This is my slice of the web where hot flashes meet cold wine, neck waddles are real, and birthdays feel more like breakdowns. Step into my word-world as I (re)build my writing life in real time.

Turns out I can’t out-write my own chaos.

This week I finally faced it—and came undone.

What if rebuilding a writing life isn’t this neat, curated thing you map out on a whiteboard . . . but the moment you finally admit what’s been quietly running the show underneath?

Because this week . . .
I came undone.

Not in the glamorous, silk-sheets way.
Frenchman’s not back yet—yes, I’m smiling wide.

This coming undone was more like the—oh-damn-I-did-it-again—way.

It’s that moment you realize your actions have literally been the definition of insanity.

Who said it?

Some say Einstein but honestly who knows.

“The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

That’s been me—tossing and turning in creativity.

Welcome, you.

I realized—scratch that—I finally admitted something about myself that is equal parts inconvenient and true:

I am an impulsive creator.

I create because the idea taps me on the shoulder and sinks its delicious teeth in like a vampire—Hello Tom and Brad—moment.

And I follow it like a lovesick puppy.

My whole career has been one long, breathless yes.

Yes to stories—so many stories.
Yes to ideas—endless possibilities.
Yes to offers, products and courses—oh my!

Yes to even late-night inspiration that turn into four-figure sales pages by sunrise.

Well, high four-figures if I allow them to see the light of day.

Yes to the things that thrill me in the moment—
and yes, sometimes,
to things that absolutely shouldn’t have made it
onto my plate in the first place.

And then comes the part I don’t love to admit:

I don’t always finish what I start.
Not on time.
Not in flow.
Not with the ease I crave.

Oof.

Unless it’s a project for another.

Now that has a schedule, timelines, structure.

A box I—as ghostwriter Jill—force myself into.

But it’s so not my natural way.

There it is.

The truth I’ve been avoiding like an ex I hope never to run into at the grocery store.

[Living on a remote tropical island helps with that and the fact I didn’t leave a trail of ex’s behind—at least not on this timeline.]

So to circle back to finishing a thang . . .

And when I circle back to finish something—usually because students are waiting, a sale came in, or something broke—I’m retracing my own steps through a maze I built in the dark.

It works out.
It always works out.

But it costs me something every single time.

Time.
Ease.

Flow.
Sanity.

A week back that cost hit me harder than usual when a JOYful Journey message didn’t go out as planned and I found myself in a four-hour loop of tech madness.

And this week, when I just happened to pick up my book, Create Your Most Delicious Life, and acknowledge for a beat—wow, I created this.

It sat solid, heavy, real in my hands.

I birthed it yet didn’t grow it.

Never got around to nurturing it into full bloom.

A word-bloom others could truly see, experience, read and enJOY.

What a shame was the thought that followed my wow moment.

But the reason I grabbed it in the first place was to check how it was linked to my rather unruly web of pages, sites, offers—things.

And what was inside, linked out, was another chaotic mess—just waiting for the curious soul who clicks through to my site and finds a “Whoopsie Daisy, something’s amiss” love note from me.

Hey—I have no issue making fun of little old me.

And I’m the first to admit I ain’t got my shit together . . . that between my sheets is a labyrinth of twists and broken turns.

The dream of something desired totally unrealized.

Until this week.

Because, as impulsive as I am creatively, I’m also craving the opposite.

A solid foundation.
A cozy home.

Turns out, my creative flow doesn’t need more freedom—it needs a frame.

Some safety upon which to land, be held in—like the muscled arms of my arriving-soon Frenchman.

A machine humming in the background so my WORDS can be seen, read, found even.

What I never built—until now—was the quiet, steady machine underneath me, my words, all I have to offer. The one that keeps my word-world moving even when I step away to create, to live, to rescue a goat or two.

With this steady hum, with gear forever turning once built correctly, tested and fine-tuned, I can exhale and focus on creating, on writing, on serving in my quiet yet profound way—knowing that perpetual fires will no longer need to be put out with obscene frequency.

That links won’t be broken because I turned something off.

Emails won’t stall their send because I didn’t hit publish or finish the damn sequence.

Reacting will no longer be my creative-flow-stealing norm.

Step one.
One home. One container.

The all-encompassing system to house my playground, my everything—it’s not perfect, but perfectly imperfect is good enough.

It’s one place, one login and no longer a patchwork quilt of never-ending systems “zapped” together with digital duct tape and a prayer.

One place I can create, build, link into and out of like Charlotte’s Web.

A slow build maze of an ecosystem—a playground—that when built right, with intention, doesn’t lead to dead ends and support emails.

It’s always been an idea in the back of my idea-spinning head—this creative web.

But I listened to outside voices, mostly of the bro variety, and not my inner knowing.

Hell, my creativity was never in question, a problem nor has it been having a lack of ideas.

If anything, it’s having too many . . . but is that really a problem?

Yes, when there’s a lack of a place, space for them to properly, safely live.

I am a nester.
A homebody.

Even my words need a fabulous, rise-up-to-greet-them home.

So this week has been all about finally coming undone, in the most truth telling way, and doing things my way.

Creating a word-home that’s structured—built with an exhale, one word at a time.

And not with new ideas, although those are flowing, but with all-this-content that’s been holed up in digital darkness, orphaned paragraphs, pages, books-even that never found a home after they were birthed by me.

Why?

Because I was onto the next.
But no more.

Enter my inconvenient epiphany.

My harsh moment of truth, I’m realizing the only reason I’ve been word-successful in my life, up till now, is because I have Becks.

It hit me, solar plex hard, first as a question—Is she really the reason I’ve been able to write books to their “the end” moment and publish?

Then as a statement of oh-shit fact.

My agent is the reason I’ve been able to finish anything these last three decades.

Tough pill to swallow.

Becks, if you aren’t aware, is my agent.

Bossy.
Brilliant.
An absolute bear.

And she’d cackle reading that—no offense taken—just an F-bomb dropped for dramatic flare.

She’s responsible for my words being bound, being led into book form and sold.

She’s the machine behind the creative me.

She’s the structure, the hum—sight and sound unseen.

She, do-not-tell-her, is my book baby, home.

And if not for her, if left to my own devices, my stories might have remained in notebooks, on floppy disks, burned on CDs, and later, digitally archived in darkness.

And had I not met that first naturopathic doctor who hired me to write his book, then another and another and the next—that part of my creative life might not have taken shape if solely left up to me.

See, that doctor, he already had an agent and a publisher interested.

The project was locked and loaded, machine of publish, market, release already in almost place.

All that was missing was the writer of the words.

My cup of word-tea.

Plug-and-play easy.

So here I am, admitting my “success” was perfectly accidental and not of my doing at all.

Yes, I can write.

That is all mine—a gift given to me at birth like a voice given to Whitney, Mirah, Michael.

A gift, once found, I worked on and mastered and enJOYed the hell out of. So that mastery, perhaps that can be accredited to me.

And now, in the messy middle, in a moment of utter clarity, I’m simply a woman admitting she cannot live inside an online junk drawer anymore.

It’s not sexy, this part.
It’s not lingerie-closet decadent.
It’s certainly not glamorous.

But oh . . . it feels right.

And maybe, just maybe relatable to a few . . . or to many.

Because the truth is—and you may already know this about me—I’ve written millions of words no one has ever seen.

Entire worlds, characters, stories, lives created with my purple pen that no one was ever allowed to see . . . to step into.

Crazy. Insane. Bonkers.

Stories tucked away in digital corners like abandoned love letters.

And while those unseen words bestowed mastery of craft, maybe some, not all, could have helped if put in the light of day.

So this is me starting to expose what’s between my sheets.

Maybe that’s why these Friday word-shares matter—because naming the truth to someone actually reading my words feels less confessional and more like the start of something foundational.

A way of reflecting, of digging deep to expose the truth.

So many words.
So much clutter.
So many—too many toys.

(Mine out of the bedroom if you went there, naughty reader.)

Shiny objects, systems, services that are simply getting in the way.

So I’m creating a word-playground, a foundation to support my JOYful Write home.

A space that feels like an exhale and an invitation to curl up with something delicious.

An inner connected highway, network, web of delightful storytelling and opportunities to dive deeper.

Like so many paths to travel, to explore why take just one.

Why go down the “one less traveled”—the Frost way—when you can literally enJOY and explore them all.

Or none at all.

However, I think this idea—a creative ecosystem where everything connects and nothing gets left behind—is exactly the thing so many of us crave.

I mean—how many things are on our To Do Lists, taking up precious mind-space?

So I’m creating the structure and flow, the repeatable processes, and finding JOY in this moment of building anew.

Because the creating was never the issue—it’s the completing, releasing, and sharing that turns creativity into a life.

Much like this series has encouraged me to reflect, to share deeply, intimately what’s working and what is flawed.

I’ve been here before—tossing the baby out with the bathwater.
Tearing shit down to start again when it all went askew.

But this coming undone—it’s different.

This wasn’t just an epiphany, new found clarity.

This wasn’t just insight—
it was the truth finally catching up to me.

I’m not re-creating, I’m building.

Like you build a book or a screenplay.

Not to be formulaic, but there is a three act structure more often than not.

And structure when built on a solid foundation, one I’ve never taken the time or energy to properly create until now, that changes the game.

That’s what this week gave me—not clarity, exactly . . . but confrontation.

A gentle, inconvenient, necessary undoing of me.

Because if I want this next season of my writing life to actually work—quietly, beautifully, sustainably—then the old way has to unravel a bit.

The impulsive creator gets to stay.
She’s magic.

But she needs a partner now.
A rhythm.
A home base.
A soft, structured space—around those sheets—to land.

Because Between My Sheets can only exist when there’s a frame—a structure holding it all together.

So consider this episode the moment I stop pretending I can wing my way into the life I want.

I’m building the foundation now.

The turn has begun.

And next Friday?

Will there be a next Between My Sheets moment for us?

Next week feels like the rise after the unraveling—the moment where the sheets finally settle and the truth stands still long enough for me to choose.

I guess that will be the moment I share whether I’ll continue letting you Between the Sheets with me—or not.

Let me know if you want more than a roll or four with me.

Or maybe you’re perfectly happy letting this little Between My Sheets fling end with a kiss on the cheek—and a be on your merry way pat on the backside.

Either way—

Thank you for being here on this delicious, messy, truth-telling ride.

JOYfully,
Just Jill “still tangled in the sheets, but finally seeing the light” Stevens

💜

P.S. I’ve been letting go of a lot lately—the noise, the rules, the “shoulds.”
Rejecting, ejecting . . . returning to myself.

I opened Create Your Most Delicious Life this week and landed on a page that reminded me—I’m exactly where I belong.

If you’d like a little peek at that book, subscribe to this publication, Before First Light, and I’ll send it to you as a little word-gift.

I mentioned The 33 Day Magnetic Storytelling JOYful Journey in this episode. If you’re interested in learning more, you can explore it here.

And coming soon . . .
with all the structured ease possible . . .
is the companion to the first book I ever published under my real name—

Write Your Most Delicious Life

If you’d like to discover more—and read an excerpt—consider joining the waitlist.

Just so you know . . .

This is my slice of the web where hot flashes meet cold wine, neck waddles are real, and birthdays feel more like breakdowns.

Step into my word-world as I (re)build my writing life in real time.

Know someone who might love this post? Feel free to pass it along.

Share

What if (re)building a writing life could be its own story . . . especially when things start to wobble?

I’m giving it four Fridays to find out. Part entertaining, possibly educational. Worth continuing? You be the judge and jury.

Welcome, you.

Time to sink into this TGIF moment—a 15-minute read.

This is part of a (maybe) year-long series called Between My Sheets, where I share the real story of (re)building a writing life—with goats, grace, coffee and the occasional glass of ice-cold white wine.

Right now you’re reading the forward-facing version.

If you want to truly lie between the sheets with me for the next year and engage in some word-filled pillow-typing talk, you’ll be able to access the full reveal soon enough.

Consider this a word-partnership, Lovely Reader—more than a one-read stand.

For now, give this third episode a read and see what stirs within you.

And if you missed them, the earlier episodes . . . ​
Prelude: “I just want to write,”
Episode 1: The Morning After​
​Episode 2: Partnering

---

This week? It sucked.

No sugarcoating it.

No pretty purple bow.

Monday became a tech-mess when a JOYful Journey email didn’t go out as scheduled.

It was my error that caused the glitch, but figuring out how to fix it . . . that took hours of hair-pulling with a chat-bot, then human interaction, to finally resolve.

Speaking of chat-bots—and more AI talk—is it just me or does finding them everywhere make you crave connecting with a human even more?

Having to explain myself to a bot (and then again to a human) is like a forehead-meet-desk moment. Painful.

And my head already hurts.

After the messy tech morning, the tsunami hit Monday afternoon.

Fever. Chills. Earache.

Down for the count.

I stand.
I spin.

So no emails went out, which had been my plan after a silent—no words shared—day of much needed Sunday rest.

Perhaps a foreshadowing of what was to (cough) come.

But to top it off, more tech glitches to unravel on Tuesday, in between naps and sneezes delivered in sets of three.

No joke. It’s always been a thing. My father and I used to count—one, two, wait for it—three.

But on Tuesday I simply gave in . . .

No emails sent.

No fresh words written.

No VIP students were mentored (yet), which I feel absolutely shitty about.

Students? Hmm, feels too teacher scold-er-y.
Customers? Distant. Cold. True, but just off.
Mentees? Ah, now there’s a breath of yes.

Correction—no VIP mentees mentored—yet.

Instead of writing daily, I dropped the word-ball, and laid my head on the pillow and gave in as the world tilted like an unstoppable dreidel.

And it made me realize something I’ve been circling like a bonfire dance off.

The need for a machine humming in the background of my business.

Not a chat-bot . . .

A rinse-and-repeat system.

As automated as possible—without losing the connection and intimacy I so enJOY.

Because I am seeing that my flow, without a solid, completed structure, collapses.

Because I’m an idea girl.
Wildly prolific.

And yet, at times, I’m not always a completer.

Wildly inconsistent with follow-through.

Which is costly because the fortune is in the follow-through.

That my hesitation to step into the masculine energy needed to create a container—to structurally hold all the feminine side of me—creates something else.

Maybe even a misplaced belief that doing so will pull me back into my previous A-type personality.

See, I’ve been living in a space of patch-worked systems.

Like grandma’s handmade quilts, a square stitched together over here, three different ones over there.

Wait, do they match, connect? Should they? Must they?

And then another blaze erupts, or creative ideas spark, and the quilting squares that create one structure are laid down in scattered pieces—never quite finished.

Never able to hum away in the background but instead left as another dangling, chaotic mess.

A simple system.

That’s the ask, the dream, the desire.

Is it really so hard?

A pathway through the playground of me, my words, my offers.

A refusal of allowing the messy middle to invade my business, my words, my ability to serve—again.

These purple penned thoughts, this desire for structured ease, are now a real and pressing need.

This week has shown me that in a vertigo-tilt kind of way.

A simple framework machine that runs in the background—created and completed, tested and tried—once.

All done with ease, with simplicity, with structure and flow—that doesn’t clank and break, but purrs a consistent, steady, soothing beat.

So that regardless of me—regardless of my energy, my hormones, my Frenchman, my goats, or the fact that some days my body waves a white flag and says—“Not today, boo.”—everything deliciously carries on.

Maybe you can relate . . .

This is the dream for so many.
An ache for others.

For me, it was a thought, a desire, a nagging need but now—now it’s a necessity.

This week reminded me that my creative life is—well—delicate.

Powerful, yes.
Impactful, when working.
But delicate.

It reminded me of a wonderful woman, a long-time friend and colleague who texted me out of the blue back in 2022.

After a few minutes talking about life, her two kids, her husband, and the thriving coaching business she’d built that relied on her—she burst into tears.

As we’d jumped on a Zoom call, I saw her painful meltdown live.

I sat with her, didn’t ask what was going on, what was wrong. I simply let her get it all out.

Pent up feelings, fears, tears.

And like a dam bursting, the words came—the story unfolded and like pieces of a mad puzzle, I fit them together.

Thirty calls a week.
No systems outside of her.
Her girls. Just four and six.

She was stressed.
She was wearing all the hats.
She was successful on paper and spread too thin in life.

I thought this was the meltdown and then the real reveal dropped.

Cancer.
Stage four.

Oh my God.
Oh my God, her girls.

I cried with her, for her and prayed.
We prayed.

And then her ask came in hesitant fragments.

Not sure.
Not much time.
Canceled ten calls this week.
Struggling.
Just.
Can’t.
Do.
It.

Can you help me?

The very next day I stepped in as chief-help-me officer and drafted emails that went out to all of her clients with an option.

Option A. Stay on with a new “master” coach. A coach who built a successful book business of her own and is here to help me in a time of great need.

Option B. Or bow out, no hard feelings, no penalties. Money back, if pre-paid.

I turned down a book project, put another one on hold and shuffled my life.

I shifted my focus from my own business of writing daily emails and creating amazing things with the help of a new coach I’d hired, and dove into absorbing my friend’s content, voice and coaching-style.

The very next week, I took over her 30-plus hour call schedule.

Only one refund request came in.

Within three months, we transitioned the one-on-one coaching to a group format, brought on a team member and started to create systems.

My friend, she did what she could until chemo took over.

And sometimes, in just two or three minutes a day, we created life-changing systems for her business in the event she wasn’t able—or there—it could continue to run without her.

Masterclasses of past content morphed into standalone offers.
Literally dozens of them that once systematized could be bundled and sold.

Sales pages, checkout pages—all the words written for each and every one—and a digital home framed out so once there, they could live, breathe, and sell for a lifetime.

And all those 60-minute coaching calls each and every week? While lucrative, they were taxing and weighted me down fast.

So priority one was a new path, new plan.

Thirty one-on-one calls weekly, slowly over six months of my time, became two group calls per week.

There was talk about me buying her out of her company, her brand.

Lots of talking, texting—back and forth.
Choices had to be made.
Hers. Mine.

It was heavy and beautiful, hard and wonderful.

Decision made, another team member came on board—a master coach. One we both admired and believed could take over, should the need arise.

Either as a single payment pay-day or a monthly licensing fee.

It was an exhausting time.

For her.
Each breath.

For me.
Hiring, training, coaching, writing, building what was needed to run things in a Jesus take the wheel kind of way.

Yet, when I stood in the cool air behind her two little girls and husband as they lowered her casket into the pre-frost ground—the light misting of rain seemed a perfect teary farewell—I was glad I’d stepped up to the plate.

Her plate, during her time of need.

Her family now had a steady income from the machine we’d discussed, mapped out, and created.

Space to be, to breathe, to mourn without a ticking time bomb or clock of must work.

Life is so fleeting, so delicate.

And now, as I wear a headband to protect my aching right ear from the slight tropical breeze washing in through the open slider, I give thanks to my friend and all the lessons that season, that slice of life taught me.

If I’m capable of systematizing her million dollar business in six months flat—I’m capable of systematizing my own, am I not?

Of creating that humming (kind of masculine) structure that runs while I write, that serves my clients while I rest, that pays me while I feed the goats, stretch on my yoga mat or simply watch the sun part ways with the day.

And the time for this is now.

This week, when I’ve not been able to help those three VIP mentees by reading and responding to their words, as promised.

This week when not one email has gone out—yet.

Which leaves me wondering, imagining what an intentionally built, simple but structured humming machine of a system could do.

How it might free me up to quietly create even more.

How it might give me a framework, a repeatable process to release the many creations that have never seen the light of day—even if halfway released.

Honestly, I’m sure I have two or three dozen ebooks like The Magnetic Storytelling Method, 105 delicious pages I wrote and released in under two weeks because I was “on.”

I have recorded classes—some masterclasses on writing, others on JOY—that people, maybe you could be enJOYing.

Oh, and let’s not get me started on the already done book just hanging out—Write Your Most Delicious Life, part journal and part new essays. The darling companion to Create Your Most Delicious Life.

And that leads me perfectly to the audio records of yep, that last title, which I planned to release as the audiobook version and also as a private podcast with commentary and answers to questions I get often in regards to that book, the writing style, memoir type writing, and transformation, in general.

Which leads me to mention the difference between creating systems and creating words to be read.

As you can see, I’ve mastered the creation side and would even go so far as to say I’m what I call a Prolific Creator—sigh.

Ah, you thought that was a good thing?

Well, it is when there are systems.

Example?

My agent is the system for my books.

I write.
She has access.
She takes a title when she sees it’s nearing “ready.”

Without her heavy-handedness, my books may have just languished in those digital files much like some programs have . . . for years.

And being Prolific without a system?

That’s the part that drains me more than it delights me.

I crave a shift from the Prolific (but Chaotic Creator) energy and into the Quiet Creator who has a bit more structured ease.

This isn’t just about systems . . .
This is about my sanity, my soul, my words.

But creating can also live in the structure space, something I’m just now tapping into.

I remember telling my Dad once that he was a logical guy and I was a creative girl—opposites.

He was offended and declared he’s creative.

As a builder, I took pause. I thought of building as architectural plans, precise measurements, tools and materials, lots of logic.

As he wasn’t the designer, I didn’t peg him for being “creative”.

However, years later driving through a residential street, he’d developed, I realized my error.

No house was street facing, cookie cutter, but instead each one was nestled into the land.

Tilted this way and that, at the edge of a forest, around a bend, situated with a lovely view of a little swamp-lake.

The homes themselves weren’t rectangular boxes but more sprawling or tumbling creations. Interesting, unique each and every one.

The street was the location in a story.
Each house a character.

My Dad was more creative than I’d given him credit for. But unlike me, he’s comfortable in his structured, logical space.

He is logical.

He easily, naturally embodies both the masculine machine and feminine creative energies I am striving to blend.

When I stepped into that season of structured creation with my friend, I stepped into a more masculine energy.

An energy I associated with the bro marketing culture and made bad, wrong.

And this week—this sick, stalled, motionless week—I was reminded that the best version of me could and can embody them both—creative and structured—without making one wrong or bad.

Because if I had, I would have had a week with more than just one sale trickled in while I rested and healed.

The past systems I built for my friend and half-assed built for myself, have shown me it’s possible.

To harness creativity without stifling it.

To have creative flow, I need structure.

To have feminine ease, I need masculine grounding.

Not the bro-marketing, hustle culture masculine energy but the steadfastness of systems that create the structure ease I so desire.

And this can come in two forms.

A simplification of what I create and offer.

As in one thing, one container, one offer.

But that’s so not me.

Or a simplification of how I run all-the-things.

A stopping of the split-focus nightmare, the tech-web of intrigue that too many systems, duct taped together, has created.

I have the path of structured ease—that purring machine—before me.

Imagine how much lighter I’ll be if I simply make a choice and then go—like my mantra that I share often.

Eleven minutes on the clock—go.

Go—as in write.

But in this case, go—as in build those humming, supportive systems in eleven minute masculine bursts.

We all hold both masculine and feminine energies.

And creating from masculine energy doesn’t need to be the bro marketing, which (to me) is hustle culture.

Pushing.
Gamification.
Results-driven instead of people-driven.

To me, that way doesn’t allow for the natural inclusion of the feminine energetic side.

It doesn’t allow for the ebb and flow that IS the messy middle.
It doesn’t allow for the feminine magic.
It doesn’t allow for the slow, quiet, word-centered life I crave.

Because I’m done being a Prolific, but Chaotic, Creator.

Ease doesn’t come without a plan.
Flow doesn’t appear without a container.
Creativity doesn’t blossom without some safety.

My friend, when alive, was always IN her business. On calls and doing all the things.

She told me during one of our chats that, of course, over the years she spent countless hours thinking about her need for systems but she didn’t prioritize them.

Didn’t know how.

Like her, I’ve been spending hours thinking but not doing.
Spinning but not decided.

Wondering about the how it will all work and forgetting my other mantra of truth.

The how is none of my f_cking business!

The how unfolds naturally when you move your feet and do.

My mind has known of this imbalance in my business life and now, now my body has decided to show up in painful protest to declare—now is the time.

Now is the time to embrace the masculine energy and brick-by-digital brick build the structured ease foundation I crave . . .

Or stop-all-this helping others via classes, coaching and products and go write more books.

And that was—is an option, a thought—to stop this creator business, to stop mentoring people who also want to step into their own slice of sunlight and earn cash from their words.

It would, after all, be easier to finish Jack and Emma’s story—the one where 80 percent of the scenes are already penned thanks to my jaunt with AI-Partnering™ that I wrote about in Episode 2: Partnering.

I mean that story opens with a baby goat in a classroom!

Extremely cinematic, heartwarmingly funny and could so be turned into a movie script once on the paperback book shelves.

But I crave something more.

Community, maybe.
A desire to help others in this messy middle of life, yes.

Perhaps even a bit ego driven—to make a mark in a profound way.

Because as an author, it tends to be a solo endeavor.

But writing and creating publicly, like this, sometimes that feels the same solo way, too.

Those quiet cricket moments where no one responds . . .

Are the words even landing?
Are they reading? hearing? caring?

Here’s what I know after more than 30 years of “successful” word-play.

Silence doesn’t mean you’re not being read.
Silence doesn’t mean you’re not being seen.
Silence doesn’t mean your work isn’t landing.

Sometimes, the right eyes are already on your words.
Sometimes, the universe whispers instead of roars.
Sometimes, the validation you crave shows up in unexpected ways.

Or you realize validation isn’t what you need after all.

Instead, all you need is to create.
And make bank.

Because let’s face it—writing, like any endeavor born in passion, is just a hobby until you place a value on it and are compensated.

And that humming machine in the background, that structure, having that turned in is how a Quiet Creator can keep on creating.

So along with healing, this is my time to create a hub, a simple space that once built runs in the background while I write, mentor, live.

Word-business (re)building needs support.

Mentors.
Containers.
Systems.

Something that supports me even when the day feels heavy, the body feels off or a goat needs some more hugs.

Or I do.

What do I build/create that moves my business quietly forward with structure, with ease while I rest or play or simply write?

That’s the question I’m sitting in today.

And I think I’m finally ready to tell the truth—

My writing, my creativity is like a never dry well I can dip into at any time.

My life runs beautifully in flow, but my business needs more structure.

That’s the masculine/feminine dance I’m currently in.

I create to create—not necessarily to share—unless given a plan, a path.

And even then, I have been known to veer.

My agent hates this about me for she can never predict what I’ll have finished or when, when I write for myself.

What saves me, in her eyes, is that I’m so prolific!

But this week showed me, up close and personal, the cost of not having a plan, a system in place, a purring machine supporting me.

The sick week didn’t derail me.
It revealed me.

Structured ease is the dream.

But not accidental.
Not magical.
Built.

With intention.

I’m not meant to hustle loudly.

I’m here to write passionately.
I’m here to impact quietly.

Quiet Creator energy is my natural state.

This week made the cost of not choosing—
not acting on my desire for structured ease—
impossible to ignore.

Structured ease isn’t accidental.
And something in me knows . . .
it’s time.

What are you here to do?

JOYful,
Just Jill “The JOYful & Quiet Creator” Stevens

💜

Next week brings the fourth episode of Between the Sheets . . .
and then it’s decision time.

Do I keep rolling out these Friday words—or call it a wrap?

I’m curious to hear what you think . . . and whether a full year of this (re)building of a creative life is something you’d want to witness unfold.

I’ll be asking.

If something in today’s story stirred a spark in you, here are a few places where my words live beyond these Friday sheets:

✦ The 33 Day Magnetic Storytelling JOYful Journey
✦ Create Your Most Delicious Life
✦ The Magnetic Storytelling Method

And coming soon . . . with all the structured ease . . .

✦ The Book: Write Your Most Delicious Life
✦ The Quiet Creator hub—(for lack of a better word)—reveal.

And if these Friday words are speaking your language,
please subscribe below.

Subscribe now

Just so you know: This is my slice of the web where hot flashes meet cold wine, neck waddles are real, and birthdays feel more like breakdowns. Step into my word-world as I (re)build my writing life in real time.

Know someone who might love this post?
Feel free to pass it along.

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What if (re)building a writing life could be its own story? I’m giving it four Fridays to find out—part entertaining, possibly educational. Worth continuing? You be the judge and jury.

Welcome, you.

Curl up with something delicious—this episode is roughly an 14-minute read.

This is part of a (maybe) year-long series called Between My Sheets, where I share the real story of (re)building a writing life—with goats, grace, coffee and the occasional glass of ice-cold white wine.

If you want to truly lie Between My Sheets with me for the next year and engage in some word-filled pillow-typing talk, you’ll be able to access the full reveal soon enough.

Consider this a word-partnership, Lovely Reader—more than a one-read stand.

For now, give this second episode a read and share your thoughts in the comments—if you dare.

But first, if you missed how this all began, you may want to start with
The Prelude: “I just want to write,” and Episode 1: The Morning After.

---

Am I tired of telling other people’s stories?

Yes and well, no.

If you don’t know me well yet, or at all, a little backstory to fill you in. I’ve been a ghostwriter to naturopathic doctors, celebrities and ordinary people with extraordinary stories to tell for three decades.

That’s a lot of books written and a lot of lives impacted from behind the curtain of “not me.”

So when a friend reached out a few days back with an ask that gave me pause, I took a step back. “I’m reading such-and-such’s book [insert title I won’t share] and it sounds just like you. Did you write it?”

Well, if I did, I didn’t do my job! was my texted response.

Because, yes, I had—maybe, but contractually can’t say—helped write that book.

So did I actually fail a bit if it sounded like me?

As a ghostwriter, my job is to embody the voice, tone, essence of another— and share their story, their words—in a polished, professional, and highly sellable way.

I think I did and I didn’t—fail—writing that book for that unnamed celebrity.

I did fail, because if a friend can start to hear my voice when they read someone’s book, they either know me too intimately—or I’ve not done a good job removing my natural cadence from their work.

At the same time, I didn’t fail because, well, how can I remove myself entirely from a project?

This woman CHOSE to work with me because she loved my writing style, my voice, my word-way.

Notice that. All those “my’s.”

Most of the people I ghost for are NOT writers. They shine in their area of expertise and hire me for my six-figure word glow.

And I love ghost(writing) for people—and have for 30 years.

So maybe it’s not that I’m tired but more selective.

Maybe it’s about giving my soul room to write, my way. As me—fully.

Don’t get me wrong. I love being the side-piece—between someone else’s word-sheets—unknown, anonymous.

There’s something freeing about that.

Something that gives me a blank canvas to be as word-raunchy as I want.

But I’m entering a new chapter of life.

Well hell, I’m in it—that messy middle. That moment when something in so many women, I’m learning—and maybe for men too—shifts.

It’s like suddenly entering an uncharted sea—one that looks familiar, feels familiar and yet holds unseen currents that shift and roar, then melt and frolic, only to surge in raging, unexpected ways each and every day.

Hell, three to ten times a day, if I’m being fair.

All this to say, I think I’m coming into a new season of me.

A season where I am very selective about the ghostwriting projects I will say yes to—for three reasons.

One: Each ghost-project is a long-term commitment—almost a marriage. And I’m already in one of those . . .

I’m married to a Frenchman, if you didn’t know.

Well, actually a Parisian. If you understand French culture, you’d quickly grasp that tidbit is—oh-la-la importante!

He’s not coming home (yet), so I’m dealing with that blow, while (re)building my word-biz and documenting it here in Between My Sheets.

He’s spent a lot of time the last few years in Bali where he eats like a king for $3—or less—a day.

Now, in Paris, he’s shelling out $20 just for lunch—while getting far less.

But—it’s Paris!

Still it’s messing with his mind. And if he comes here and we go out, it’s more like $60+, which, at the moment, he simply can’t handle.

The cost of living in paradise!

I could just tell him to relax, we’ve got this, but he doesn’t get my word-business.

And I don’t think this is new for a lot of creatives, artists, online peeps.

So I don’t share much with him about my writing. English is his second language, and my style isn’t his historical-niche desired read—it works for us both.

I like my word-anonymity even from him. Strange to some, perhaps, but all good for me.

Now, a totally different man—a long-time business colleague—gets my word-business, as he’s in it, too.

A few months back, he approached me with an idea—a joint venture.

That’s where things started to unravel—in the best, messiest way.

Because a joint venture, much like ghostwriting, or even marriage, comes with its share of side effects.

My second selective reason:

When I say yes, I take creating for myself off the table—a natural start-stop pattern that’s both served me and held me hostage.

And this new joint venture? It risked becoming exactly that—slipping me right back into second-fiddle mode.

But such a dangerously comfortable place for me to reside.

This colleague wanted me to partner with him. The offer? A romance writing course for wanna-be writers.

And the first book I ever read cover-to-cover, understood, and enJOYed was—drumroll—a romance.

Granted, I was eleven, it was totally inappropriate—but I was hooked.

If you don’t know this, I’ve written romance for decades. My first book, published at 18, was (yep) a romance.

In a hauntingly beautiful way, it mirrors my current life with my Frenchman.

Hmm, did I actually manifest my current life thirty-odd years ago?

We’re married, yes, but spend much time apart—on separate islands.

Long-distance love, long-distance understanding.

There’s definitely a book there.

But back to that first title I penned as a teenager instead of listening in history class.

A story about a couple with two houses who lived side-by-side.

At seventeen, this was my idea of romance—delightful closeness, with space.

A hero who built a white picket fence between their two homes—complete with a connecting gate and arching arbor soon covered in dazzling, purple, flowering vines.

A home all modern and concrete—all tidy, clean lines and nearly bare—for him.

And one full of nooks and crannies, wide, wrap-around porches, and gardens in gorgeous, chaotic bloom—for her.

And it sold. People loved the idea of one love, two lives—surprisingly.

Not your typical romance.

But what is typical with romance is that the readers are insatiable.

Romance outsells every other fiction genre and generates billions in revenue each year.

So back to that friend—my long-time colleague—who knew the genre and his idea as a goldmine.

But a man, promoting romance novel writing? That’s a harder sell. Not impossible, but easier with someone else—a woman—forward-facing.

Insert me—an established, although unknown, author who’s been writing for decades in multiple genres under numerous pseudonyms.

Win. Win . . . or so he thought.

He wanted to make it easy-AI-peasy for anyone to write and publish a romance—fast—then cash in on those niche riches.

If you missed it, that means the idea was simple.

Ask AI to write your book in literally an hour, if not minutes.

Yes, I just threw up a little.

For so many reasons, I hated the idea.

Writing is my passion—my JOY—and thinking AI could do it as well or better than me was impossible to fathom.

And faster, well, does that really equal better? Or even matter?

But he persisted—as he does, in a kind way—and I finally cracked open the AI door to play.

I use that word loosely because it was more frustrating than playful—but I dove in.

(Here’s where I must disclose: I don’t use AI to write for me—and won’t. Plus, contractually, I’m not allowed to.)

Not with his idea exactly—not yet building a course—but testing the waters, learning what AI could actually do.

Could AI write? And well?

The answer—yes and no.

And it took me weeks and about a grand in credits to figure the little sh*t out.

At my friend’s recommendation, I tried a platform called Manus. While good, it cost me time, energy, money—and more than a little rage—trying to understand what was possible and what simply wasn’t.

I am not against advancement.

It’s normal—natural even—but the speed at which things evolve can feel intimidating at times.

What I discovered at the end of this frustrating experiment was that when I—often in ALL CAPS—told Mani (yes, I gave him a nickname) to STOP WRITING FOR ME, and simply become my conversational partner, we got along.

I started to write, brainstorm and create faster than ever—as if I had a book partner to bounce my ideas off of in real time.

But when he tried to take over, AI sucked the very life—and JOY—out of writing.

That feeling was excruciatingly soul-crushing.

After repeatedly explaining to a “machine” to do only one thing—listen then reflect back thoughts, ideas, possibilities—AI Partnering™ was born.

But that wasn’t the idea my friend wanted to sell.

He felt the entire book could be written by AI—and fast.

Just give it a genre, a setting, a basic plot, some character details, and let it go to town.

I absolutely hated when Mani took off with my ideas and veered down a path that wasn’t mine. It was devastating at both a soul and artistic level.

And I saw quickly that my “role” would be to let Mani write at whim—and become his editor.

Yes, I just threw up a little a second time.

First, I’m not an editor. I actually suck at editing. I’m far better at showing someone how to write better—to guide and mentor—than to shape-shift their story. That’s a skill.

That’s not my skillset.

I create. Characters. Worlds. Stories.

I breathe life into them until they’re so real to me (and, thankfully, my readers) that the lines between reality and fiction blur.

What? Did I write that—or did that happen? is an internal question I often ask myself . . . and I’m okay with that kind of madness.

It makes me happy.

But watching AI run sideways with my idea—and change it without my input—was hair-pulling, confusing and, anything but fun.

And reading lines I didn’t recognize as my own—after telling him again, in ALL CAPS, to stop writing . . .

Well, that was mind-blowingly annoying.

I haven’t been so mad in ages. And I was mad at something “artificial,” of all things.

Talk about a mind-fuc—well, I’ll just stop there.

When I got back to my friend with the idea of partnering with AI—rather than having it write the actual book—he didn’t think it would work.

But let’s give it a shot.

Seeing the runaway AI train for what it was, I reluctantly climbed on board—still in an adolescent learning phase—to give it a soft go.

Painful. Mistake.

If that thing I am doing lacks JOY—forgetaboutit.
If I don’t believe in something—forgetaboutit.
If frustration sets in—forgetaboutit.

And AI writing my book—anyone’s book—still feels plain wrong to me.

From my experience working with my AI guy, Mani, it was like navigating a neglected road littered with decades of gaping potholes.

The mistakes.
The stiffness.
The lack of empathy.

Don’t even get me started.

Maybe for nonfiction it’s better, but when it comes to creating characters, storylines, emotional moments, and reactions—just no.

But again, how can we expect—or even want—AI to write books for us? Unless the end goal is literally quick riches.

Even that—highly unlikely.

So not me.

I write to write. Because I must. I believe the “riches” follow that vibe, that honest, that JOYful energy that’s naturally behind each word I purple pen.

The old—write it, publish it and readers will find it—mentality is, frankly, a lazy way of being.

But this friend of mine, he wanted to teach people that side of this romance writing thing, too. Or so I thought.

A full-stop course: write your romance with AI, self-publish it, then market it for sales.

So we soft-launched the idea to his list and 16 people snatched up the discounted offer.

And it was an utter disaster—until I realigned with myself, my JOY, my beliefs—and took back control.

That moment—when I stopped chasing someone else’s idea and started, once again, trusting alignment and leaning in—was my true win this week.

That right there was the moment I earned this week’s Between My Sheets creds—because if this series promises anything, it’s the honest look behind the curtain.

It’s also a commitment to share what worked. What didn’t. What actually made money—and what absolutely didn’t.

AI Partnering™—not AI writing your book.

And it worked.

I actually wrote more than 80% of a book’s scenes in just under two days.

That’s crazy fast, even for me.

How did it happen?

I bounced all my ideas off Mani, like a real-time conversation with a best friend, editor or book buddy.

Typically, that’s an internal process.

And because it’s internal, it’s more pondering—walking down a meandering, mental word-path of possibilities, marinating in the twists and turns before deciding to follow the delightful thread that calls out the loudest.

But do I want to teach others to use AI Partnering™ this way?

Honestly, to really use Mani (or Manus)—AI—the way I did, one would already have to be a master of their craft.

Meaning—hundreds of thousands of words written, journaled, purple-penned in the ink color of choice.

Not necessarily published or even prolific—just confident in their own voice, style, and way of writing.

The creative who’d ALL CAPS shout if AI tried to write for them—not tempted to let a story be told by something lacking empathy, desire, passion—or understanding of humanity, conflict, and ultimately—love.

So that project with the colleague fizzled out, leaving me with a handful of good lessons—and a half-finished love story about Jake, his daughter Lily; and Emma, his love interest, plus her goat.

Yes, I put a goat in the romance novel I wrote through the partnering experience with AI. Don’t judge.

And those awesome lessons?

They’ll probably stay untouched on a digital shelf, in an archived folder of maybe-one-day ideas.

Although now would be the time to release that, if it brought me JOY.

But would it?

While my friend—who I haven’t heard from in weeks—said my new spin had legs, he silently bowed out

Or did he actually ghost me? Is that what that means?!

Well, he’s MIA—probably because my idea was far less flashy (and lucrative) than tempting people with “write a book in an hour” and make romance riches in a week or two—or ten.

So here’s the honest look behind this week—the part that earns the Between My Sheets title.

What worked.
What didn’t.
What actually made money—
and what I’m learning as I (re)build—or simply create—this thing.

So let’s wrap with the third and final reason I’m being more selective about which ghostwriting projects—

and now, joint ventures, if any—I consider.

In committing to this next year—building my writing-centered business as me, by me, for me—and (maybe) documenting the process so others can learn, model, and finally get paid to write and be themselves if they feel called to—I must focus.

And be more selective.

That’s the heartbeat of Between My Sheets—me finally stopping the start-stop pattern, finding (and staying) word-aligned, and letting you watch as I (re)build—or simply create—a perfect-fit-for-me, writing-centered business in real time—as me, by me, for me.

And who knows—maybe stopping my start-stop pattern will grow something delicious, magical—and help you, Lovely Reader, do the same.

Because that’s the real experiment here—seeing what happens when we tap in, align, flow, and start creating, together.

One Friday, one word, one messy-beautiful moment at a time.

So here I am, week two. Documenting what’s working, what’s wobbling, and what’s flat-out wild—the parts that earn the Between My Sheets title.

I think this week showed me the importance of planting my word-feet firmly. There are so many ways to get paid for your words, it’s insane.

You can start a newsletter (and one day or immediately charge a subscription for access).

You can write books, self-publish them, and learn the marketing skills to promote them.

You can write emails, courses, create JOYful Journeys or even write letters for people. (One day I’ll share that $10K story with you!)

And you can partner with someone who knows more than you—or has a following that might just benefit you.

But first, your foundation must be solid.

It’s back to that one line I must have written half a dozen times in my book Create Your Most Delicious Life—know thyself.

Know what fills you up—with JOY, with energy, with alignment—and don’t chase it. Allow it. Sink into it; don’t waver when shiny offers, ideas, or people dance by.

I knew that AI-romance writing gig wasn’t for me, but I went down that partnering path—and off my JOYful course—anyway.

Sigh.

Yes, some sales were made, but more money went into learning AI and building an online community for those sixteen—so it was a loss.

Except for the learning, and self-reflection—and maybe even the ability to deeply feel frustrated and rage a little, even if only at a “machine.”

Sometimes letting it out is a good thing, wouldn’t you say?

So while it might not look like word-progress, there is. I’m speaking with a mentor-friend today to gain clarity on the many ideas ricocheting in my head—even as the JOYful Journey keeps selling spots and this week’s two offers didn’t do half bad.

It helps to have a sounding board, a person you respect to reflect back to you what they hear you sharing—or not sharing.

I might have mentioned adding to-dos to my plate last week with a VIP offer for that JOYful Journey.

A good choice—even with the extra sales page, welcome-email creation, and now my feedback time involved (which I’m loving). Two sold Wednesday from a simple P.S. line in the daily JOYful Journey email.

Not too shabby, right?

I expect a few more sales over the weekend, and at $333 each, that’s not a bad word-biz week. Add that to twenty-one sales of the Journey and the goats get more hay!

Speaking of goats . . .

I’ve been thinking about structure and flow—the masculine and feminine energies that keep a creative life humming.

Maybe it’s the full moon we just had—or my messy-middle vibes—but it’s definitely on my mind. Tune in next week for Episode Three—there might just be some head-butting to report . . .

This four-week experiment—this partnership with you, Lovely Reader—is my real-time rebuild.

So tell me . . . was this long-winded read worth your cup-of-something-delicious time?

You can be honest—just share in the comments and let it rip. You can also ask anything pressing on your mind.

Just remember . . . You got this.

Just Jill “partnering with myself, my words, and you, Lovely Reader” Stevens

💜

P.S. The Frenchman returns at month’s end (cue happy dance). Apparently my messy middle ways don’t spook him—only me.

P.P.S. By the way, twenty-one lovely souls start The 33-Day Magnetic Storytelling JOYful Journey on Monday. I’d call that a win.

I mentioned The 33 Day Magnetic Storytelling JOYful Journey in this episode.
If returning to your own voice feels like the right next step, you can explore it here.

I also referenced AI Partnering™—not as an offer yet, but as an experiment. If you’d like to raise a hand for future writing-with-AI conversations (the aligned kind), you can join the waitlist here.

And when you’re ready to keep reading, Episode 3—The Embrace is waiting for you.

If you want to be notified when new episodes go live each Friday,
you can subscribe right here.

Subscribe now

Just so you know: This is my slice of the web where hot flashes meet cold wine, neck waddles are real, and birthdays feel more like breakdowns. Step into my word-world as I (re)build my writing life in real time.

Welcome, you.

Curl up with a steaming beverage of choice—this episode is delightful 11-minute read.

If you’re new here, you may want to begin with
The Prelude—”I just want to write,” she all but snarked onto the page.

This is part of a (maybe) year-long series called Between My Sheets, where I share the real story of (re)building a writing life—with goats, grace, coffee and the occasional glass of ice-cold white wine.

If you want to truly lie Between My Sheets with me for the next year and engage in some word-filled pillow-typing talk, you’ll be able to access the full reveal soon enough.

For now, give this very first episode a read and share a thought in the comments—if you dare. I’m looking for a word-partnership with you, Lovely Reader—more than a one-read stand.

---

If you know me, you know I write 2500 words before I even start my day.

Typically every-single-day but I’m dedicated to only five.

That’s a nod to not setting myself up for failure.

And by starting my day, I mean feeding the flock of 23 goats (and other rescued critters), as soon as the light crawls into the night sky.

So while my days might be and feel very different from yours, simply look upon my sharing here as a living memoir that meets creative business experiment.

A living, breathing creative experiment—(re)building a writing life from the inside out and documenting it.

Not using any outside connections from my time as a 6-figure ghostwriter, nor from the publishing houses or my agent who’s been selling my fiction and non-fiction under various pseudonyms for the last 26 years.

And, it’s not just about books for me.

Because nobody puts this baby in just a book corner.

This rebuild is bigger than a single story—it’s about crafting a creative ecosystem that breathes, earns, and inspires.

This isn’t a series about publishing; it’s a story-series about purpose.

So Between the Sheets will dish on the journey of creating a writing-centered business from words—and maybe something you might want to model, in part or in full.

From emails to challenges to JOYful Journeys to audios to (yes) books— I’m all about building a word-focused ecosystem that becomes a playground for people to enJOY.

And it is already coming with some sweet challenges—some you might relate to.

Like you, perhaps, I’m a near nobody in the writing and online world. And honestly, I kind of like that.

I’m not in this for fame, attention or even because I must see my name beckoning on the cover of a book (or ten).

If I had to do it again, I wouldn’t have put my real name on any books—maybe just a variation of it.

A way of holding a little something of me back.

Because I value my anonymity. Which is psychotically funny, considering I’m here inviting you Between the Sheets of my creative life.

And yes, there’ll probably be glimpses of the goats and island living, too—because it’s part of me, part of this (cringe) “brand”.

I could rant on branding, bro marketing and polished-perfection, fake-it-till-you-make-it ideology, but I’ll refrain. For now.

While I’ve got “followers” and “fans” scattered across platforms, I’m rarely on, because social drains me—a story I’ll rewrite someday. Maybe.

But that’s a focus for another day.

Between the Sheets is an intimate, bold, entrepreneurial take on being a quiet creative.

Kind of an oxymoron right there, don’t ya think?

Each week, I’ll be sharing what’s working, what’s not, and what’s actually making money—because I’m all about creatives and writers making bank.

When you bring value, art, and JOY into the world, I’m telling you, people love to pay you.

But I’m not just going to tell you—I’m going to show you.

It’s like that all-important writing moment when the teacher leans over your shoulder and says, “Show me, don’t tell me what the character is doing, saying, thinking, feeling.”

That’s what this weekly episodic-series is—a living, word-exhale demonstration of creative work in motion.

Because I plan to be center stage and utterly exposed here—like that time I was about nine and literally found myself naked, but for ruffled panties, on the elementary school stage.

I wrote about it in an essay called Pink.

I think that story-share was meant for a book—The Journey of You—part of the five-book JOY Series I meant to write. It’s about 80% ready.

But only my editor, Autumn, could confirm that. She knows my work better than I do.

Those books could’ve been released a year ago, but I haven’t gotten around to it . . . yet.

See, I’m prolific—but sometimes not great with follow-through.

I’m amazing at creating and dreaming up stories, courses, sales pages even, and writing them in magnetic, captivating ways . . . follow-through, however, is a whole other sub-genre.

And without my agent, it’s entirely possible none of my words would have been published, and I’d probably be like so many of you who’ve emailed me asking—

How do I make money from my writing?

And if it weren’t for Autumn, a few years back, I probably wouldn’t have managed to publish in my own name.

Even though I’ve been writing for three decades, that feat didn’t happen until February of 2022. By choice.

So, I have only two books published on Amazon and both with very few reviews. Relatable, right?

Great reviews for one and not-to-shabby for the other, but still too few for my books to gain traction . . .

But have I done anything about it?

No.

This is the messy, lazy-perhaps truth of being a writer.

And a business person.

And a recovering plate-spinner with questionable focus and a dash of ADHD flair.

That’s why I’m doing this out-word-loud—to prove that momentum doesn’t come from perfection.

Momentum comes from showing up—messy and real.

There are so many paths, so many shiny things whispering your name and with no proven step-by-step path to follow so many writers’ blood, sweat and tears just fade into the deep abyss.

I’ll just share this.

While I won’t be using my traditional connections nor my agent to help with this (re)building of Just Jill, Writer—I will seek out Autumn, if she’ll have me again.

It’s been a while since we’ve word-worked together, but she’s a soul-sister and a fabulous editor who just plain gets me—and my quirky word-style.

So I know when the time is right, she’ll be the one to support me and help focus me so I can get all these words I have out.

Because surrounding yourself with one or two people who get you, your style, your unique path—that matters.

Now maybe getting word-things out and sharing isn’t your issue.

Maybe it’s more not knowing what to even write about.

(Which, funny enough, is exactly what I’ve been revamping this week— shifting The 33 Day Magnetic Storytelling Challenge from its old promise of a publish-worthy story to what it truly is: a JOYful Journey to get one writing again (or for the first time) even when they don’t yet know what they want to write.)

And I’m thrilled to say, this rebrand—something I’ve been meaning to do for a year now—is already a hit! Which is celebration-worthy, because this word-business is working.

And if it works for me, it can and will work for you. When you decide and move your word-feet.

Twenty-three sales at $99 and seventeen at $49. I’ll leave you to your mental math.

I’m so excited to start Monday, live with these students—making real-time updates as they journey through 33 days of writing with me by their side.

And no matter what the concern, here’s what I know.

I create just to create—unless given a plan.

Someone else’s book to write?

Okay, deliverables. Deadlines. Accountability. Ouch.

My book, my projects, my emails?

I’ll get lost in a story and three days will pass without me even realizing the sun rose and set again.

Oops. Forgot to email, share, sell, invite you into my world.

Except for feeding all the animals, I’m pretty good at zoning most things out.

So why do this?

Between the Sheets is about inviting you, Lovely Reader, into my creative bed, literally and figuratively—to show you how stories are born, rewritten, and sold.

How a word-business can be created in this day and age, from simply an idea.

And how it’s time to place value on the written word and storytelling—because in my hot-damn opinion, it’s one of the most important and necessary skills anyone can have, learn and master.

Even with AI taking over—but let’s save that for another day.

Still, that conversation belongs here too. Because this series isn’t about avoiding what’s shifting—it’s about writing our way through it.

Between the Sheets is not about shying away from those taboo topics.

Because without a plan, a path, a dash of feet-to-the-fire accountability—shit just doesn’t get written and that word-biz never gets off the ground.

So consider this a backwards way of giving you a plan—one rooted in real words, real creation, and a whole lot of messy magic.

The good, the bad, and the word-ugly here for you to glean from each Friday—at least for now.

Lean into what speaks to you, model what sends a shiver through you, and forget the rest.

Your journey will look different from mine—from anyone’s.

And the key is to enJOY it.

And know that I’m a disorganized mess of a writer with more than 30 million morning words no one has ever seen . . .

Plus, something like 22 books and 11 offer-ideas—all half done or 99% ready, yet still lounging unpublished in my digital drawers.

I’d say it’s better to focus, write or create one thing—and then actually share it before it’s fully ready.

I create to create—but the magic multiplies when I share.

Otherwise, I end up all over the damn place—forever creating . . . and not (or slowly) releasing.

For me, that’s the goal, the dream. To share more. With ease.

But I could also say—the grass is forever greener on someone else’s side, is it not?

And so neatly mowed, in organized back-and-forth straight—did they use a ruler?—lines.

I am so far from a straight-line creative it’s painful at times.

So my goal for the coming serialized share season is to rein my prolific creativity in a bit—and release more.

Not necessarily create less.

That would be like asking me not to breathe.

But to create with purpose.

Between the Sheets is actually my documented accountability—to you (and myself)—to get my words, in whatever form, out into the light to be enJOYed.

And to shine light on the path a bit so you can do the same—your way.

Just know—even the most successful are a wreck at the best of times.

And I certainly do not have it all together and will never pretend to. That would be both ridiculous and obscene.

So let’s go behind the scenes—all access, all revealed—with this very episode and see where it takes us.

I truly believe that the best way to create a word-business is through community.

And that’s what I’m feeling Between the Sheets may become.

Because as Austin Kleon shared in his 2014 book, Show Your Work, it’s all about the process—not just the product.

Meaning, if my-now-work is to finish that book The Journey of You, that book is the product.

But if I show you the process of finishing that book and doing that thing—openly, freely—I possibly gain you, and others, and create a following.

And that following—those fans I used to run from—now naturally and gracefully become part of my word-ecosystem.

We all get to play in my word-centered business playground together.

Doesn’t feel much like work now does it?

A community—showing one’s process, or creating a “tribe”—isn’t a new concept, but I love how Kleon visually and artistically brings it to life.

More of which I’ll dive into soon.

But honestly, that first of my JOY Series book is not currently on my must-do radar. At least not today.

Nope, instead I must put out a little fire.

“Fires” seem to happen often in my business and life—mostly because I tend to fly by the seat of my big-girl pants and chase fresh ideas, even when I’ve got seven half-done things waiting in the wings . . .

Or cluttering my desk, journals and kitchen island.

And my phone is cha-ching-ing—“You just made a sale!” messages.

A most welcome students-and-money-in notification I keep on intentionally—because this goat-Mama’s got a hay bill coming due . . . and the goats need a barn!

So I’m now off to check on the JOYful Journey deliverables.

Because while I’m desperately working toward simplification and structured ease, I’m also cleaning my work-house as I (re)build.

So by rebranding the challenge, one great offer that actually sold when I shared it. I created a laundry list of “must-dos”:

• a rewrite of the sales page,

• the welcome email,

• new checkout page (on a newer system to me, just because I’m a glutton for punishment)

• rebranding of all 33 emails, and lessons, and example story-shares

I could go on with the checklist but honestly, first, I should drop the word desperate because it totally sends the wrong energy!

Words matter, Lovely Reader, we of all people know this.

Right?

So now, at nearly 5pm Thursday, I’m off to confirm people are getting the welcome email and, the pre-start survey email (which gives me a lot of great information in my students words).

Then I’ll check that Monday’s Day 1 email is ready-set for an early automated send.

And then comes the big task—re-review, re-brand all Days 2-5 emails so they are ready to roll and I’m not playing catch up at the last moment during the week and draining my already—messy middle energy!

Plus, knowing myself, I’ll probably revamp a VIP offer and need to write a welcome email and sales page for that.

Because why not spin another plate higher and higher while already balancing two.

Who needs more hands when you’ve got JOY.

Oh, I have to love this creative brain of mine, otherwise I’d surely go mad.

So yes, I started this week wanting to write—and ended it juggling three new ideas, one offer launch, sharing this episodic adventure, and a goat chewing on my notebook.

That’s what the morning after looks like when you’re (re)building a creative business in real time, real life (while supporting a sanctuary of crazies!).

More soon, Lovely Reader.

For now, I’m calling it a day before another idea sneaks in and asks for attention.

Highly possible . . .

Just Jill “forever another the idea girl” Stevens

P.S. Remember, TGIF is now about getting word-close—Between the Sheets style—with me.

P.P.S. Share in the comments what part of your own “morning after” you’re in.

And a peak at one of my rescues . . . Fe Fi Fo.

If you felt that pull when I mentioned The JOYful Journey,
you can peek at it here.

No pressure—just a little creative nudge if you’ve been whispering “I just want to write,” too.

Or if you want to see how you can build, share, and sell without ever touching the bro-marketing playbook.

Resources Mentioned:

• Pink, an story from my up-coming book—The Journey of You—also lives inside Magnetic Stories From Your Ordinary Life, along with the tale of Fe Fi Fo’s brother, Lucky B. Writing from your life can be magnetic when done well. Find out more about how to do that here.

• Show Your Work by Austin Kleon
  

And for those ready to binge-read, Episode 2—Partnering is waiting for you.

If you want to be notified when new episodes go live each Friday, you can subscribe right here.

Subscribe now

Just so you know:
This is my slice of the web where hot flashes meet cold wine, neck waddles are real, and birthdays feel more like breakdowns. Step into my word-world as I (re)build my writing life in real time.

I opened the thirteenth email in just under two weeks and read those words again.

Jill, I just want to write.

For so many people to be emailing me the same five (sometimes six) words and asking for my guidance to do just that (and get paid) made me press pause.

I've always found a need, listened, and filled it.

This seemed like a pretty big (thirteen person) need.

Which got me a-thinking . . .

What if I conducted an experiment, live and in real time—one month, maybe twelve—to see what happens when I (re)build a writing life from scratch?

And document it.

A behind-the-scenes, pull-back-the-curtain blend of memoir, story, and lived experiment—about writing, creating, and being paid for being you.

What’s possible one year from now?

Well gosh, now I’m flipping interested.

So I’m doing something a little crazy.

I’m calling it Between My Sheets—a Friday word-drop experience.

One messy, magical dispatch each week as I explore what it means to start over, create again, and (re)build a word-business that actually works.

Something that might blow up like a firecracker display—a cascade of JOYful color shooting over the inky, night sky.

Or maybe a mic-drop dud, barely heard but still beautiful.

Either way, I’m in for the next four Fridays . . .

And right about now, you’re probably asking—what the blipity-blip is she even writing about?!

If you’re a writer, dreamer, or creative misfit who’s lost your rhythm . . .

Maybe you’re standing at life-or-career crossroads . . .

Or deep in the messy-middle—you’ll want to come with me and read my Friday words—Between My Sheets.

All the deets of what really goes on between the pages of a word-centered, creative business.

Because yes, you can write AND get paid AND start over, OR again, at ANY age.

Creativity is so varied, and—take it from me, a plate-spinning, multi-offer, prolific creator—sometimes the work is in learning how to say no to chaos and yes to structured ease.

Or simply discover one’s creative flow again.
Or for the very first time.

One Friday at a time.

I’m giving it a month—four weeks—to see what happens.

Let’s call it dating before a commitment.

If it resonates with those thirteen (and you), I’ll keep going for the year.

So much is possible.
And it all starts on Friday.

Just Jill “in a (re)write moment of life” Stevens

💜

Continue reading Between My Sheets with Episode 1: The Morning After
and become part of this real-time delicious experience.

This is an excerpt from The Magnetic Storytelling Method—the foundation of how I think about story, voice, and creating work that moves people.

What follows is the opening of the book, shared here to give you a feel for the voice behind Before First Light.

If these pages resonate, you’ll feel right at home.

Invitation.

Welcome home. Yes, home.

This is the place where you get to sink into getting in touch with the creative you.

Because, yes, I’m going to assume that you are a creative.

A writer, an artist, a visionary, a coach, a business owner, an entrepreneur—you’re on a path, or seeking one, that allows you to impact others with your voice.

Your words.
You.

The voice, the side of you,
you perhaps toned down so you could
play it safe,
be financially secure,
not be judged,
do what you were supposed to do . . .
even, perhaps, be who someone else wanted you to be.

Again, welcome home to the you who lives deep within.

Whether you are currently writing words or have never before filled a page, you are in exactly the right place to word-play.

With me.

Writing is an art form that allows one to share ideas, recount what has happened, or create possibilities for what will.

Writing is more a window to the soul than the eyes because the words, the style, the tone, the essence of what’s created comes from deep inside.

And if you’re reading this thinking—
But I’m not a writer. I haven’t written since school . . .

I’d simply invite you to sit down and tell me where in your body does the desire to write live.

It’s there, friend. I see it.

I can see it because you’re here, digitally flipping the page.

I see the real you, the one who’s invested in this book.

A book entitled The Magnetic Storytelling Method.

So I’m going to invite you to get cozy-comfy.

To pour a glass of something bubbly or brew a blend of deliciousness and join me in a read that has the power to shift your thinking around what it is to write a magnetic, captivating story.

Because I can tell you right now it’s not what you think.

And certainly not what some well-meaning or fed-up, ready-to-retire English teacher once told you.

Writing is your soul gone wild.

With JOY.
With dreams.
With possibilities.
With truth.

Your truth.

When you’re ready to begin, come on inside with me.

Storytelling 101.

I’m going to share something magical with you that I want you to chew on as you read through this book.

You are a master storyteller.

You tell stories all day long, everyday. So today I invite you to start noticing just what stories you enJOY sharing.

You are actually the writer of your life.
The director, cameraman or woman and oh-so powerful.

Your thoughts are a story.
Your words spoken . . . stories.

Very little is factual.

The sun rises in the east. Fact.
The sun sets in the west. Fact.

But start to dive into what you tell others, yourself, throughout the day and you will see that most everything is—in fact—a story.

So what specifically does that mean for you in this moment?

It means you are a powerful creator.

Of your daily life, if you want to be, and with a bit of training, you can take those tales you naturally sink into in your head or in conversation with others, and begin to write them.

Be they fiction or nonfiction does not matter because the common thread in both is, yep, stories.

So let’s dive into a few examples:

Stories Move You To Feel.

This is an essay taken from the book The JOY of You. Book one of the Journey of You series. Scheduled release in 2026.

sensitive waters

At one time in my history, I couldn’t take a shower without turning off the water multiple times.

And it wasn’t because I was a conservationist kid.

No, it was a bit more sinister than that.

A mix of Kathy Bates and Alfred Hitchcock.

I’d hear a sound,
forever on alert,
and shush the water,
ears perked.

I perfected listening with straining ears,
tense shivering body,
naked, vulnerable,
breath held,
gripping the shower curtain fabric
like it was a slippery lifeline.

Listening with shock-still focus for the sounds of
breaking glass,
a crash.

Perhaps a shout,
a cry for help.

What you’ve just read is the opening movement of The Magnetic Storytelling Method.

It’s where my approach to storytelling begins.

The full book goes deeper—into story, character, rhythm, emotional tone, and the practices I’ve used for decades as a successful ghostwriter.

If you’d like to continue reading, you can find the complete digital edition by clicking the purple button below.

Read the full book ($9)

(Paperback coming soon.)

And if you’re drawn to the idea of witnessing a lived experiment, of watching and reading as I rebuild a word-life as myself, in real time—with structure, ease, and JOY—Before First Light is where that story continues.

New essays are shared each Friday as I tap into what's word-possible during the next 52 weeks.

You’re welcome to join the journey . . .
and binge-read the first episodes of Between My Sheets right now.

→ Start Here

(A quick note: The Magnetic Storytelling Method was written before AI and em dashes exploded onto the scene. Maybe AI modeled me a bit—or maybe I’ve always loved dropping em dashes between words. Either way, AI had no part in writing or editing this manuscript.)

If you'd like new essays delivered each Friday as they unfold,
I’d love to have you inside Before First Light.

Subscribe now