Yesterday, my debut novel Finding Alberta officially entered the world.
I am more excited than I have ever been, and just as terrified about what people will think as they read.
The book almost wrote itself. Some chapters poured out of me. Other chapters began as nothing more than skeletal ideas, thin outlines of what I hoped they might become. But the most thrilling part of the process was when the story came to life. The people became real. The conversations felt overheard. The ache felt lived.
Yes, the novel is set in Detroit, and many of the places are real. But the interiors of homes, the kitchens, the church basements, the quiet rooms where grief settles in — those lived only in my imagination. And somehow, characters with first and last names grew flesh. They reacted. They loved. They misunderstood. They surprised me.
That is the magic of writing fiction. It feels less like inventing and more like listening.
Many chapters have several versions because I have been trying to get this story right for a long time. The biggest change was the ending. My original ending was… well, I will not say. But I will tell you that my middle daughter Myah called it horrific. She is an avid reader. The girl devours books. When I told her how it ended, she said, “Wait. What? You cannot end the book like that. No.”
Then she began asking questions. Good questions. The kind that pull on threads and expose the ache beneath the plot. She reintroduced me to foils, story arcs, and character dynamics. Myah is living proof that classical education is worth the rigor.
My oldest daughter, Nala, created personality profiles for my characters so their reactions would remain true. These were foundational milestones in the rewrite. Not every chapter needed to be torn down, but every chapter received attention. By the time I was emailing batches to Chris, my editor, I finally understood what he meant about telling the truth, even in a fictional story.
I know I just announced this book. And here I am, announcing it again.
But I am in a strange and sweet place of elation and fear. And like most things in my life, I think them out loud here at Big Bowl of Popcorn.
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Share it with someone who might need it, too. Whether it’s a quiet encouragement or a new way of seeing things, these reflections are meant to be passed along.
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Martina Griffin is a Catholic convert, writer, wife, and mother of four. She writes about faith, motherhood, beauty, books, and the quiet ache of transformation. A lover of popcorn, deep questions, and old classics, she shares her heart at Big Bowl of Popcorn—one post at a time. Instagram | Facebook | Email Me |
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