From Dreams to Written Realities
I always knew I was born to write from the moment I started learning to read. While kids my age loved picture books, I leaned toward text-heavy books, trying to read them despite my limited reading skills. I read the back of cereal boxes while eating breakfast and adults’ Reader’s Digest copies in the bathroom. During middle school, while every girl was crazy over Harlequins, I was reading Austen. English literature was easy for me in high school because of my love for classics like George Eliot, Thomas Hardy, and Emily Brontë.
Reading seemed easy, but I can’t say the same about writing…and publishing.
They say writing isn’t a career worth pursuing—no one gets rich or even lives comfortably from it. Writing is hard; publishing is even harder. I was born far from Western countries, where literature flourished. I couldn’t make a name for myself locally, so how could I publish internationally?
My folks were right; that dream would remain just that—a dream.
So, I chose to pursue a degree in economics. Math would land me somewhere, for sure. Writing took a back seat, but reading didn’t. While most shopped for clothes and makeup, I spent my money on books. While others partied, I was in the library—the Goethe Institute, Jefferson’s Library, British Council—those were my sanctuaries.
They say books let you travel wide. You can swim with dolphins, ride dragons, or be rescued by a prince. I lived parallel lives: my reality and my imagination, where I could be anything I wanted. Oh, if only I had started writing and documenting those parallel universes, I could have written hundreds of books!
So, it was no surprise when I landed a copywriting job as my first job. I was trained to become a brand person, creating brand stories and breathing life into each one. My career took me to places I only dreamed of, showed me love on many faces, and let me experience different kinds of love in unexpected situations. If only I could have written them all. For years, my reality overpowered my dream of writing. I tried convincing myself: why write when you can experience it?
One day, my friend Frances Amper-Sales, who became my book editor, published her memoir, The Invisible. I was so happy for her that I chatted with her, not knowing that encounter would change my life.
“Congratulations, Frances! I’m so happy for you!” I said.
“Oh, thank you, Just! You’re next! I want you to write and publish your book,” she said genuinely.
I politely explained that the boat had sailed. “I’m too old to write,” I added. Frances, being who she is, continued encouraging me to do it. “Just do it,” she said.
So, one night, I uncorked a bottle of wine and opened my laptop. For minutes or perhaps an hour, I stared at the blank document page without knowing how to start. “Begin badly, but begin,” I told myself and my black cat Salem, who chose to accompany me that night. So I wrote. Anything. I didn’t mind the misspellings and grammatical errors—I just wrote. Then, the sun peeked through my window. It was morning. When I looked at my word count, I had written over 8,000 words. I had written a few chapters of my first published novel, Four Seasons.
My protagonist, Hope, was a copywriter who dreamed of writing her book one day. She was me in my early twenties. It is easier to write when you know your character well. In my case, Hope was me—she is every reader’s parallel persona. Every night, I looked forward to uncorking a bottle of wine, putting on my playlist, and writing. My characters became my friends and family. For months, that was my life: work, live in my parallel universe, and then write before going to sleep.
I was in euphoria when I finally typed “the end” at the bottom of my manuscript. But then, what do I do now? I let it sit on my computer for days, hidden in one of the secret folders. I hoped that one day, I would have the courage to publish it. I had no idea about getting a book agent or querying. So, I said my silent goodbye and moved on with my real-world—work.
Until I mustered the courage to ask the person who had encouraged me just to do it. If anyone were to read and touch my manuscript for the first time, it had to be her. She was the only one I trusted. Besides, she was the former editor-in-chief of OK Magazine, so she knew about celebrity and Hollywood life, which my story revolved around.
“Frances, you do book editing, right?”
“Yes, I’ve done a couple.”
“Can you do mine?”
“What kind of editing?”
“I have no idea. I’ve just written a 100,000+ word novel.”
“Wow! Since it’s your first time, we can do conceptual editing, or I can just read through it and point out areas of improvement, then proofread it.”
“Just do what you think needs to be done.”
So, we agreed on professional fees and the scope of work. I had to admit I wasn’t prepared for the brutal editing process. I was used to being praised by my bosses, clients, and co-workers, but not this. Boy, was I humbled. At times, I wanted to kill her, LOL. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. Four Seasons wasn’t just readable; the story flowed smoothly. Frances didn’t edit it; she let me do the work and pointed out the areas that needed rewriting and improvement. She asked the questions readers would ask and helped me close the loopholes. She challenged every corner of my manuscript. Frances and I fell in love with Hope and Richard’s stories so much that after the successful publication, I wrote the sequel, and she edited it. Did I mention she’s a wide reader, too?
In two years, I’ve written three novels: Four Seasons, The Last Snowfall (a sequel to the first book), and night Sara/Night Heck, which I co-wrote with Mike Dee. Seeing those three novels in printed paperbacks brought me to tears. Finally, they were printed, bound, and sold in different bookstores worldwide.
My protagonists, Hope Williams and Sara Miller, were copywriters struggling to fulfill their dreams in their twenties. I penned Sara in Paris, in one of those outdoor cafes, like the literary icons I had read and dreamed of becoming one day. My novels aren’t bestsellers yet, but I took the first step: writing them. Knowing that readers are reading them makes me happier than anything else.
Writing was no walk in the park; it was full of heartaches and disappointments, but it wasn’t impossible. My books didn’t make me rich enough to quit my day job. I’m far from that, but seeing them in the hands of readers is more than enough for me.
(Read: A Writer’s Journey Through Paris)
So, who am I now? My identity and digital footprints have been as a brand strategist for decades. Then, overnight, I became Justine Castellon, book author. Can you believe that? AUTHOR.
Paulo Coelho said it best in The Alchemist: “People are capable, at any time in their lives, of doing what they dream of.” When you keep staring at the ceiling, dreaming of something, just do it. When words are elusive, try to write; don’t give up. When someone breaks your heart, and you want to stop writing, don’t—just continue. Don’t give up on something when people say you should. Lastly, find your own version of Frances, someone who nudges you and reminds you just to write.
And when you do, you’ll realize that the journey is as extraordinary as the destination.
Justine Castellon is a brand strategist with an innate ability to weave compelling narratives. She seamlessly blends her professional insight with her passion for literature. She writes about her journey as a writer in between poetry and short stories. She is the author of three novels –– Four Seasons, The Last Snowfall, and Gnight Sara / 'Night Heck.
(Twitter/X @justcastellon)
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