Between My Sheets—Episode 5: The Reveal

This week both whispered and roared.

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.

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

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