I Didn't Plan to Become a Children's Author at 50

Becoming a children's author wasn't part of my five-year plan.

Let's be clear: there wasn't even a five-year plan involving books.

Then I turned 50.

To celebrate, I did what any perfectly reasonable woman marking a milestone birthday might do: I scheduled a professional photo shoot, brought fun outfits, wore a puffy tulle skirt and, naturally, put on a crown.

That crown would eventually become part of the story of Rayna Jo Zest and Zestful Productions.

But at the time?

I was just celebrating making it to 50.

Somewhere during the hours of photos and conversation, my photographer heard enough stories about my life, family and assorted adventures to casually say:

“You should write a book.”

Well.

That's a dangerous thing to say to someone with an imagination.

While reviewing the proofs later, I looked at one particular photograph and thought:

This is going to be on the cover of my book someday.

It wasn't.

But apparently the book part stuck.

The Idea That Wouldn't Leave Me Alone

I've always loved writing. I can probably thank some very good high school English teachers for that.

But life gets busy.

I raised four kids, worked, built things, changed directions and did all the regular-life stuff that fills the years before you realize several decades have gone by.

Books were always part of our home.

I spent countless hours curled up with my kids reading everything from picture books to chapter books—with character voices, obviously. If you're going to read a children's book, you might as well commit to the performance.

Still, writing one?

That belonged in the category of things I might do someday.

And someday is remarkably good at staying someday.

Eventually, someone close to me decided I'd had enough someday.

I was strongly encouraged—and by strongly encouraged, I mean something much closer to “Would you PLEASE do something with all of this creativity?”

I wrote stories. I made graphics. I created videos. I was constantly dreaming something up.

Apparently letting all of that live inside my head was no longer acceptable.

Fair enough.

Then Along Came an Owl

What eventually emerged was Oliver the Owl.

Oliver brought together things that had been sitting quietly in different corners of my life for years: childhood memories, my family's restaurant history, food, creativity, storytelling and my love of making ordinary moments feel a little more special.

Suddenly I wasn't just thinking about writing a book.

I was writing one.

And that was when I discovered that having an idea for a children's book and actually publishing a children's book are two very different hobbies.

Four Months, Approximately 900 Questions

The technical side of self-publishing felt like learning another language.

Formatting. Page counts. Layouts. Printing requirements. Proofs.

And then formatting again because apparently I hadn't suffered enough the first time.

I spent about four months working through my first book, questioning practically everything.

The perfectionist in me came very close to abandoning the whole thing more than once.

But eventually I got there.

And something funny happened after surviving book number one:

Book number two took me two weekends.

Turns out experience is useful. Who knew?

Both books were written in rhyme, which created its own particular form of madness. I read those manuscripts aloud hundreds of times, listening for rhythm and meter and hunting for words that rhymed and actually made sense.

I gained an entirely new respect for anyone who makes rhyming look effortless.

It is not.

Meanwhile, Real Life Was Still Happening

I wasn't sitting in some picturesque writing studio surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

I was working full-time and writing whenever I could.

The photo on this article?

That's the glamorous headquarters.

My actual living room. My actual laptop. Coffee nearby. Oliver on the screen.

That's what becoming an author looked like.

When an idea was flowing, putting the computer away and returning to regular life was torture. There were absolutely days when going to work felt like an unreasonable interruption to my creative process.

But I kept squeezing it in.

Friends and family became my sounding board. I'd show them what I was working on, ask questions and occasionally make sure I wasn't completely going off the rails.

And underneath all of that excitement was another question:

Could I actually pull this off?

What If Nobody Cares?

That question showed up a lot in the beginning.

Who was I kidding?

Who was going to care about these books?

Eventually I arrived at an answer that changed everything:

My family would.

And if they were the only people who ever loved these stories, maybe that was enough.

I wanted to create something lasting—something my children and grandchildren could hold in their hands. Something connected to the family stories and memories that had been handed down to me.

Once I stopped requiring the books to prove something, I could simply make them.

And that made everything easier.

The First Proof

Then the proof copy of Oliver the Owl: The Culinary Pro arrived.

I held an actual book that had previously existed only as files, ideas, illustrations and approximately eight million decisions.

My reaction was basically:

OMG. I DID THIS.

I showed it to my granddaughter—because obviously we needed quality control—and received her approval.

That mattered.

Then something I hadn't really prepared for started happening.

Other people liked it too.

Readers responded. Families bought the book. Opportunities appeared. I connected with people in my community, worked with local organizations and found myself doing book readings and signings.

This little owl I'd created at my computer was suddenly out in the world.

One Book Changed More Than I Expected

The book didn't magically transform my life overnight.

It did something more interesting.

It showed me another version of myself.

Someone who could have an idea and actually finish it.

Someone who could learn an entirely unfamiliar publishing process at 50.

Someone who could create something rooted in family history and turn it into something new.

And someone who apparently could call herself a children's author.

That last one took a little longer to sink in.

I've written about that particular ridiculousness separately because, as it turns out, publishing books and believing you're a real author are not necessarily events that occur at the same time.

Maybe 50 Wasn't Late at All

When I look back now, I don't think I became an author despite waiting until this point in my life.

I think all those years gave me something to write about.

Raising children gave me an understanding of how stories become part of family life.

My parents gave me stories worth preserving.

Work taught me how to figure things out.

Creativity gave me the nerve to try.

And 50 gave me just enough audacity to put on a crown and start wondering:

What else could I do?

I didn't plan to become a children's author at 50.

Turns out, I didn't need to.

Sometimes the next chapter starts before you realize you're writing it.