As my family can tell you, I have been writing all my life. My first “books” were handwritten in spiral-bound notebooks in my grandparents’ camper. I can still smell the cloth seats. I have that book, and many like it, stored away in the vast files of academia I have kept from my time in school. 

I owe a lot of my writing credit to my dad, who did two key things: wrote, and bought me a 1990s computer program called Storybook Weaver. I was able to create picture books with that program, and I’d absolutely love to see those today. 

In the fifth grade was the first time someone told me I was a good writer. My teacher, Mr. Davoren, at Nettie Hartnett Elementary school in Leavenworth, Kansas, told my parents during conferences (during which I was supposed to be sitting quietly and definitely not eavesdropping from the hallway), that I had written a short story he really admired. 

The praise continued throughout my middle school years, where in 8th grade I read a book a day. I owe that to my mom, whose memory from my childhood is that of her bathed in lamplight, reading library book after library book. She was voracious, and I wanted to be like her, and like my dad.

The reader and the writer have a kid. So I grew up with my parents giving me both ends of the spectrum, devouring everything from L. Frank Baum to Hermann Hesse to Ray Bradbury to Rick Reilly. 

So I learned to write and read, key to anyone who wants to be a writer. I wrote for my high school newspaper, got to junior college, and was told by a sociology professor that I was a good, profound writer, who should continue to write my whole life.

My undergrad changed a little. I was startled to see red ink at the end of one of my papers my freshman year. A professor had asked me to see him after class.

“Jillian,” he said. “There is writing in this paper that doesn’t match up with what you say in class.”

He was accusing me of plagiarism.

I had to submit a letter to the dean and prove that I had not cheated. I was flabbergasted. This was the early 2000s, when ChatGPT and even smart phones did not yet exist. Beyond that, in all of my years of writing, I had never been accused of cheating. 

So I submitted my work from other classes and was suddenly given an A on the paper. Instead of making me shrink, that moment made me grow. I was more determined to prove myself.

The college paper caught on to how I wrote and asked me to be their copy editor. I ended up winning the Kansas Collegiate Associated Press Award for best column writing and prizes for news writing. I won a spot in a history journal, and went on to grad school, seeking a degree that combined my two majors of communication and history.

Museums seemed a good fit, and with no break between graduating from McPherson College and starting at Wichita State University in their public history program, I started pumping out twenty to 100 page papers a semester in grad school. I loved it. Writing about history, seeking truth, finding primary sources, begging libraries for copies of long-forgotten newspaper articles and microfilm long buried became what I lived and breathed. 

My first year, I had a paper accepted into the Fairmount Folio, Wichita State’s history journal. My second year, I was honored to edit that same journal. 

Years later, my paper was entered into the Folio’s 25th anniversary edition. But at that point, I was no longer writing history. 

You see, life tends to take the legs right from under writers. I graduated in 2012 with my master’s in history with an emphasis in public history. I went on to be a museum director and  education director of small museums in Kansas, but I did not find fulfillment there. 

I found stories, for sure. And moments in history shared with guests that I will never forget. I am grateful for the times I spent with my colleagues digging through the archives and leading hundreds of children on tours. I’ve dusted the mouth of a trex and seen mummy CT scans. I’ve written dozens of grants and turned the lights off on Girl Scout camp ins. 

I didn’t write a single thing for myself. 

I think, actually, I lost a bit of myself. Telling the same stories every day didn’t satisfy my wildly curious mind. So I moved on from museums and into a place where things were different every day. See, since 2007, I’ve sold wedding dresses. And I’ve never stopped.

Even on weekends when I wasn’t at the museums, I helped brides. Now, in 2024, I own a bridal store and found that with a solid footing in my career there, I have finally found the time, mental space, and energy to write.

I found historical fiction on a whim when my imagination was captured by the story of Clara the Indian rhino who traipsed Europe with her ship captain caretaker in the mid 1700s. My favorite century, an animal, and a ship captain appealed to me greatly. But the primary sources were scarce. It occurred to me then that I could write this story as a novel, making the pieces between the facts and figments of imagination, rooted in historical research. 

I cannot tell you how joyful it has been to write something that I didn’t have to prove each sentence with historical fact (though many times I did anyway) – I could wonder, think deeply, assume, imagine, propel love and depth and interest into the page that I could never do in my historical research. Historical fiction combined the things my parents instilled in me: the joy of reading, the pleasure of writing, and my own unique skill set of historical research and storytelling. 

It feels good to move back into a space of self-defined history work, especially one that is so freeing and satisfying. I’m thrilled to have found History Through Fiction, a perfect fit of a publisher and team that allows true stories to be told in a compelling way, where readers can feel the emotion that history brings. 

I feel I’ve been waiting for this my whole life. The treasure of a book in my hands is unmatched, and I’m wildly grateful. Just as most of those who loved me thought, I had a good book in me. And I do believe I have several more stories to tell. 

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