Between My Sheets—Episode 13: The ReWrite
When the body says rest and the finishing happens anyway.
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.
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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.