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Hi lovelies! It's been a minute since I've written fiction. And once you read this first chapter of my newest project, you might begin to understand why. Writing happily ever afters isn't the easiest when you're longing for one of your own. What once was used as an escape becomes the thing you need to escape. It's been nearly a year since I wrote a novel. But now, like Juliet, I'm eager to begin again, to start a new chapter as a writer. The Letters of Love series will be a series of standalone romances set in goregous destinations that I've traveled to. My recent trip to Paris, France and stay at the 126-year-old Hotel Regina Louvre is what inspired this novel. Each book will feature a female protagonist unlearning everything she thought was love and discovering true love. Sometimes that includes learning to love your self or like Juliet, learning to fall back in love with your childhood dreams. I am the romance author who's struggled to write romance because lasting love feels unattainable. I am the writer learning to fall back in love with her craft. This story will be one of healing for me, and therefore, I will not rush it. I can't say when this novel will release. Perhaps later this year? Perhaps next fall? What I can say is, I am trying again. And the ideas I have for this book make me so excited. I hope this chapter gets you excited too. 🤍 Chapter 1 The Silence Between Chapters Sunlight filters in from the twelve-foot arched windows of my Brooklyn apartment. The warmth from the rays soothes my skin as I sink onto the sofa with a cup of chai tea in hand. Autumn in New York is my favorite. From farmer’s markets to the changing leaves to the anticipation of the Starbucks fall menu to writing in my office while the aroma of my cinnamon-scented candle fills my nostrils, and the brilliant voice of Ella Fitzgerald drifts in from the living room, wrapping around me like a warm blanket. This time of year has always been my favorite time to write. Perhaps that’s why I find myself thinking about it more and more. Or maybe it’s the pressure from my agent? My lips draw into a half smile as I remember the joy of discovering my next book idea, the angst as I’d struggle to sleep while new dialogue emerged in my head, and the amusement as Pasha would jump onto my desk at the most inopportune times. Speaking of… Pasha slinks in from the kitchen, stretches himself out on the faux-Persian rug, before joining me on the couch. I stroke his grey back while he dips his tongue into my tea. “Well, there goes that.” I sigh and place the cup on the coffee table right next to the laptop I can’t remember the last time I used for anything other than paying bills and doing my taxes. Actually, no. I can remember. As Pasha makes haste toward the chai tea latte that’s now his, I remember the events of five years ago as if they were yesterday. I bite my lip as I remember sitting in front of my computer with tears streaming down my face, fingers aching at the thought of typing one more word. That book, the last one I wrote was never supposed to be the last. Well. In a way, it was. Mine to Love was supposed to be the last book I wrote before walking into my own happily-ever-after. It was supposed to be the end and the beginning—the end of my longest standing series, the end of a chapter in my life that had stretched far too long. After spending most of my life feeling like a burden, unwanted by everyone, dreaming of love, dreaming of an escape from one reality to the next—I thought I’d found him. I thought I found love. I thought all those silent and not-so-silent prayers had been answered. I thought God was about to out-do every fairytale ending I’ve ever written. I thought it was finally my turn, my story. When I began writing my last book, I was the happiest I’d ever been. Callum and I had been together for three years. He’d been a part of some of my biggest chapters. After three years, I had every reason to believe it was time for our biggest chapter. My agent, Farrah, had approved the plot and I was a month into writing the work that was supposed to be my biggest happily-ever-after yet—a love inspired by the story I was finally living—when Mr. Would Be decided he would not be mine to love. Every day that followed was pure hell as I buried my own pain to create a love story I no longer believed in. When it was finally done, I guess so was I. But… I shake my head. My ex stole a lot from me, but did he really steal my ability to write romance? Did he really shatter my belief in a love that lasts? No. That was everything that happened after. I jump—as does Pasha—as Lydia slams the door behind her. She’s the kind of girl whose presence you feel before you see her. Or at least, hear. Pasha immediately hisses and scampers off to my office as the gorgeous Indian beauty waltzes in carrying bags of couture. Lydia was my stylist when I did the press tour for my first book. We’ve been friends, and roommates, ever since despite our polar opposite personalities. She’s the fire to my water. The voice to my silent monologue. And the one who made sure I didn’t drown in a pool of my own vomit when Callum left. “Hey, lovely,” she says as she tosses the garment bags that probably weigh more than her on the sofa. “Whatcha up to?” But before I can answer, the phone rings. Without looking, I know who it is. There’s a short list of people who’d call me. A spam salesman. Sometimes I answer for the company. The delivery boy when he can’t find the apartment. And… “Farrah,” I answer on the third ring. That’s it. No how are you? No what you do want? I know how she is, and I know what she wants. She’s been asking the same question for the last five years. When’s the next book? “Juliet,” she says. I can practically see the disappointment on her face despite the East River between us. “I’ve got news.” “Oh, well, that’s new.” Crap. Did I say that out-loud? She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t scold. The only noise that fills the static between us is a heavy sigh. My stomach twists. Well, that is new. Normally, phone calls from Farrah make me feel numb and nothing more. Am I actually starting to care again? “Listen, JJ, I know I’m not your favorite phone call, and after today, you may not even take my calls.” My brows furrow and I put the phone on speaker so Lydia can listen in. “It’s just…I haven’t been hassling you for another book for no reason. I…I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.” I glance at Lydia as my mouth goes dry. Suddenly, the last book I wrote isn’t the memory that comes to me when I think of writing. Instead, it’s the first. And as Farrah delivers the do-or-die news, it isn’t thirty-one-year-old, jaded, hopeless Juliet who receives it. It’s fifteen-year-old Juliet James who just wanted a place she belonged, and so she created that place with black ink. “As you know, our agency has grown tremendously since you signed with us almost ten years ago. I should probably thank you for that. Your debut was a hit, an instant New York Times bestseller. And other aspiring authors saw that and thought we could make their dreams come true the way we did yours.” It was a dream come true, but like every love story I’ve ever known, even dreams eventually die. Yet, the rate at which my heart beats tells me this dream isn’t dead yet. At least, I hope it isn’t. “What are you trying to say, Farrah?” I ask, my voice raspy as tears wet my eyes. Lydia reaches out and grabs hold of my hand. “What I’m trying to say is, we don’t need you anymore.” The silence that follows reminds me of all the almosts following Callum. Three years and a proposal that never came didn’t make me stop believing in love. It was every failed attempt after. Lydia assured me I’d rebound, find better, hotter, buffer. Just because he wasn’t my person didn’t mean there wasn’t someone out there waiting for me. And so, I opened myself up to love time and time again only to find a pattern. A pattern of almosts. A pattern of closeness followed by different versions of “I’m not ready.” Disappointment turned to numbness turned to silence. I have no words left when it comes to love or men or romance or writing, so you know what? “Well, yeah, I hate it had to come to this too, Farrah, but maybe it’s for the best. I mean I’m clearly not what you need. I’m a romance writer who doesn’t believe in romance—the genre, the fantasy, or the reality. So, yeah, you’re better off without me.” “Without you?” Farrah cuts off my self-deprecating speech. “Don’t you understand, Juliet? I’m not trying to do this without you. You were the first author I signed whose work I truly loved. The agency may not need you anymore. We have other authors bringing in plenty of revenue but, I still want you. The thing is, the higher-ups won’t let me keep you if you don’t give me a book to sell before the end of the year. It’s been five years, JJ. The royalties are drying up—for you and me both. And yet, it still costs the agency money to keep you on the roster.” Now, it’s my turn to sigh. Though, as I sink back into the sofa, shrinking away from the phone and Lydia, I’m not sure if it’s a sigh of relief or dread. “I…I don’t know if I can,” I whisper. As if sensing my dismay, Pasha reappears and hops onto my lap. He never liked Callum. None of the others even met him. I should’ve listened to him sooner and maybe I wouldn’t have wasted so much of my heart on the wrong man. “Promise me, you’ll at least try.” Farrah’s voice drifts from the phone. “It’s October. You still have nearly three months to whip something out. And it doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be something I can work with, something I can show the partners that proves you haven’t given up on us, on love.” Tears drip down my cheeks as Pasha purrs against my chest. I have given up, haven’t I? Not just on writing and on romance, but on everything. I don’t go for walks like I used to, the new coffee blends don’t excite me in the same way. I live in pajamas, sweatpants, and all things cozy, because who cares? I haven’t cared. Maybe it’s time I start? But this deadline… I stand up, grab the phone, and begin pacing. “Farrah, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for blowing you off all these years. You…you believed in me, in my work, when no one else did. And I’m so thankful for you, thankful enough that I want to try—if only for you—but we’re already halfway through October. I’m leaving for Paris in two days for my childhood best friend’s wedding. Then I have plans to go home for Thanksgiving and then there’s Christmas. I’m not saying any of these things are more important than salvaging my dream of being published author, but…I don’t know how to just switch my brain off from reality and re-enter the writer’s world. I don’t know if I have enough time.” “Well, maybe you don’t have to switch your brain off from reality? Maybe you can let reality inspire something new?” I scrunch my brows. “Reality is kind of what got me into this mess in the first place. Are you sure that’s the best strategy?” “Oh, I don’t know, what better place to fall back in love than in the City of Love—even if all you do is fall back in love with writing? How long will you be in Paris?” I shrug my shoulders. “Just three nights, and it’ll be jam-packed with jet lag and wedding festivities, which actually sucks because I’ve always wanted to go to Paris. I just…couldn’t afford to stay longer.” My how the mighty hath fallen. She’s not wrong that the royalties are drying up. I mean I’ve invested well, but I can’t live off my backlist forever. “Tell you what? Send me your hotel deets, and I’ll extend your stay for a full week. Take time to explore the city and all it has to offer. Get inspired. Come home. And do what you do best, because JJ, you are one of the best. You just have to remember who you are. You have to find that spark again. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll find it beneath the sparkling Eiffel Tower.” I shake my head, but can’t ignore the smile spreading across my face. It’s so big my cheeks ache. I turn to Lydia and find her standing on the sofa, waiting for me to hang up so she can squeal and we can celebrate. “Consider this my last investment in you until you give me another book. Will Paris be a fancy parting gift, or the start of your new chapter as a writer, as a woman?” I bite my lip. The thought of writing romance again makes my skin crawl, but the thought of a week in Paris kind of makes it worth it. The least I can do is exactly what I’d wished every almost would do. I can try. Be sure to follow @emilymyersauthor on Instagram and join my reader group, Soulmates & Second Chances on Facebook. The Vibe? Bookish fall destination romance Soulful millionaire MC Sweet and cozy Emotional That's all...for now. (;

This week, my devotional has been all about strength. And today's scripture brought a new word to the conversation. "Blessed is the man that endureth temptation: for when he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life, which the Lord hath promised to them that love Him." James 1:12 This verse tells us to endure temptation, not submit to it. And any time the word endurance is used, I can't help but think of my favorite verse, 2 Timothy 4:7 "I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith." This Christian life is a race. It certainly feels like one, doesn't it? The thing about races is, they always have a finish line. I used to view marriage as the finish line--the end of one race and the beginning of another. In my mind, the race prior to marriage was a sprint. How much life can I live before my priorities change and I'm suddenly responsible for a family? How many countries can I visit? How many solo trips can I take? How many books can I write? And as I've gotten closer to God, I ask, how impactful of a life can I live before my impact is solely focused on the family I'm trying to nurture? In contrast, I viewed the race I'd begin as a wife as a marathon. No sprinting, just pacing. Roles of wife and mother would be first. Everything else would be de-prioritized. And it's not that there wouldn't be bumps in the road, but I wouldn't be chasing a finish line. I would've already arrived. When life feels like a never-ending sprint, exhaustion and frustration are certain. But when we realize life isn't separated into multiple races, but a singular journey, the perspective changes. To better understand the perspective swirling in my mind, I drew it: a winding path that represents one singular journey and all the stops along the way--including the sharp turns and apparent deadends. I listed not only my current priorities but where I see myself headed. Strengthening family relationships. Self-work. Writing and speaking. Traveling. Seeing the beauty in temporary encounters. Building friendships. Serving God. Expansion of purpose-driven work. Volunteering. What you can also see is: the race continues beyond what I can see there are segments where a lot is happening quickly, and others where it appears nothing is happening at all rest and reflection, just like the Sabbath, is part of the race getting it wrong and trying again are also part of the race Sometimes we fear making a wrong turn because we think it sets us back. We think our mistakes mean we have to begin again. When you've been sprinting toward the finish line only to be met with an apparent deadend, you may feel defeated. But what seems like a deadend or a wrong turn doesn't mean you have to backtrack or start again. With God, every step you take is a step forward. Even in the seasons when you feel like nothing is happening, when you're running a long-stretch that feels like it'll never end, keep going. Even when the figurative deer jumps into your path and you have to swerve to avoid a collision, keep going. Let ENDURANCE be your word of the day. This drawing, this perspective has helped me so much. Right now, I find myself in a season of rest and reflection but I'm still carrying the lessons, the passions of everything that came before. I'm still excited about where my writing will take me and how God is getting ready to use me as a writer. I'm excited about future trips, and beginning to plan my next one. I'm eager to return to serving and expand how I serve / volunteer. I'm in a season of looking back, looking forward, and standing still all at once. But soon enough, I'll put on my running shoes again. I guess the truth is, they never really come off. If you were to draw your own race, just the path that you can see now, what priorities or milestones would you include? What do you hope is around the corner? If you know me or have been a long-time reader, you probably know what I'd include. marriage motherhood more travels children's books more writing-related ministry work being a role model for younger generations continued service to the Lord Unlike before, I no longer view this as a separate race, but additions to MY race, additions to MY purpose. Additions not replacements or substitutions. The thing about additions, you have to have capacity to carry them. And so, now the question is no longer: When will this end? When will I finally get what I've been longing for? Rather, I consider how can I carry it all? I believe God is building a foundation in my life that can bear the weight of all He plans to add to my life, so that I can endure the race without being crushed and consumed by it. That is my prayer today. Lord, build a foundation in my heart that can withstand the weight of all you plan to give me, because Your bounty is full, plentiful, vibrant, and endlessly good. I wish to receive what You offer without being consumed by it. I wish to endure the race You have laid before me without being exhausted or discouraged by it. Guide me, Lord. Teach me that rest isn't bad. Teach me to not fear mistakes when You're the One leading. Remind me that slow seasons are part of the race, that each day is a step forward, and nothing is wasted in Your hands. Remind me to keep trying when I feel like I'm doing nothing but failing. Remind me that good things are right around the corner, but to enjoy the bounty of every season. In Jesus' name, Amen. Claim this prayer for yourself if you need to. 🤍 Until next time, Emily

Strength and mercy are my portion. No more longing for love. If this is all, it is enough. You are enough. You are with me in the morning. You are with me in the night. I see you in the sunrise, Even more in the moonlight. You are with me in the quiet, When the world has abandoned, When my thoughts overcome me. You are with me when I'm surrounded, Protecting me from mischievous misters, Providing a commentary only You could whisper. Like the Psalms sing, You are my portion, And all that you give. For so long, I resented your gifts, Unwrapping present after present that just wasn't it. Today, I cherish what is given without a thought for what isn't. You are my portion, Lord. And today, my portion is enough. You forgive my sins, and redeem my lost years. You answer prayers, some before others. You give good gifts, even if there's one I still pray for. But no more keeping score. No more wondering when. Your goodness and redemption aren't limited to a gold band and a man. No more trying to write the ending, Or find the invisible string. The breath in my lungs tells me You have a plan for me, And it's still unfolding. Sometimes I feel like a butterfly no one can touch. They admire me from afar, but never get too close. I'll flit and float, longing for a place to land. Every time I try, I always end up right back in the palm of Your hand. A former place of resentment, today I say, "It is good." Not just strength and mercy, Not just forgiveness and redemption of my story, Not just answered prayers that seem to touch every place but the one that aches, You are with me every time my heart breaks. You stitch me up. You heal the parts that still hurt. You remind me I'm worthy of love, when the world tells me I'm anything but. You say "I'm chosen." You say "I'm yours." That's a promise I no longer wish to ignore. You are the goodness in the morning, In the pain that hurts a little less each day. You are the goodness that orders my steps. I find your protection in every delay. You cancel flights and reroute my itinerary. You guide my pen and help me imagine new stories. You let me live dreams I held as a child. You let me travel the world. Isn't that wild? You deny men while giving me glimmers of a future that's yet to exist. Your angels protect me because You say, "Her time has not come yet." As a Father loves His daughter, So you love me. You stand stoic while I cry out in anguish. You listen to my every plea. Even when I feel unheard or ignored, You are not immune to my sorrow. You open Your arms, Wait for me to walk into Your embrace. You promise things will be better tomorrow. Your love, I wouldn't trade, Not for a million diamond rings. You are good even when life isn't. You are good even when my perspective is limited. That's the song I'll sing whether my heart is full or broken. Your goodness is not a single token that can be easily lost or stolen. Your goodness runs after those who the world has forsaken. I'll no longer judge You based on one delay or denial, rather the full account. You've been with me my whole life, and that's the story I'll shout about. A love poem from one author to another, Thank you, God, for giving me this special language of worship. If they ask me if You're worth it, I'll say, "There's no greater portion."