Writing a book was a long-held dream of mine—one I carried quietly for years. Not the kind of dream I announced out loud or chased with urgency, but one that lived in the background, tucked away between lesson plans, staff meetings, and stacks of papers waiting to be graded. It was always there, patient and persistent.

Early in my teaching career, I discovered two authors who would come to mean far more to me than I realized at the time: Gary Soto and Jerry Spinelli. Of course, there were many other great authors and countless powerful works, but Soto and Spinelli resonated with me in a different way.

Their books weren’t just staples in my classroom; they became part of the rhythm of my teaching. Their stories reached students who didn’t always see themselves as readers—kids who recognized their own neighborhoods, their own awkwardness, their own humor in the pages.

What I didn’t know then was that those same books were quietly shaping me, too.

I saw how Soto captured everyday moments—ordinary childhood scenes—and made them feel worthy of ink and paper. I watched how Spinelli trusted young readers with big feelings and honest truths. Somewhere between read-alouds and discussions, I began to understand that stories didn’t have to be loud or dramatic to matter. They just had to be real.

Years passed. Teaching turned into coaching. Coaching turned into administration. Life got fuller and faster. The dream of writing never left, but it waited. It waited through early mornings and late nights, through responsibilities and routines. And when I finally sat down to write—not because I had time, but because I made space—it felt less like starting something new and more like picking up a conversation that had been paused for years.

A couple of months ago, my own book found its way into the world.

Even now, the feeling hasn’t fully settled. It still catches me off guard. I’ll walk past my bookshelf and see it there—my name on the spine—and I have to stop for a moment. Not out of pride, but disbelief. I never imagined I’d see my book resting alongside the very authors who once shaped my classroom and, unknowingly, my voice.

It doesn’t feel like an achievement in the traditional sense. It feels like gratitude—a quiet nod to the teachers, writers, students, and moments that made it possible. Proof that the stories we carry with us, especially the small ones, are worth telling when the time is right.

If there’s anything this journey has reinforced, it’s this: you don’t always know who is shaping you in the moment. Influence rarely announces itself. More often, it shows up quietly—in a book pulled from a shelf, in a line that lingers after the bell rings, in a conversation you don’t realize you’ll remember years later.

Sometimes the books you place in students’ hands end up teaching you just as much. You watch how a story opens a door for a reluctant reader, how a student laughs at a moment that feels familiar, or sits quietly with a passage that hits a little too close to home. In those moments, you’re reminded why stories matter—not as assignments, but as mirrors and windows.

And sometimes the dreams you carry quietly are simply waiting for you to listen. Not waiting for the perfect moment or the absence of responsibility, but for a pause. For permission. For the courage to believe that the small stories you’ve lived, noticed, and carried along the way might be worth sharing after all.

That, more than anything, is what this experience has given me: a deeper appreciation for the quiet ways we are shaped—and the quiet moments when we finally choose to respond.

If you’re curious, or if any part of this resonates with you, my book is available here:
http://amazon.com/author/marianovelez

Thanks for taking a moment to read—and for not rushing past the small, unbelievable ones.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.