Nicole Schmidt, Author of With Love, Nicole

October feels like a month meant for staying.

There’s no launch to announce here, no finish line in sight. Instead, this is the middle—the part of the journey that asks for consistency more than excitement, patience more than urgency.

The work continues quietly. Pages are written, revised, and sometimes set aside to breathe before being returned to again. What I’m learning in this season is that momentum doesn’t always look like movement forward. Sometimes it looks like returning to the same place with deeper understanding.

October reminds me that not every part of the process is meant to be visible. Some growth happens through repetition, through showing up even when there’s nothing new to report. This is where discipline and trust meet.

I’m honoring this middle space—allowing the work to take the time it needs, and allowing myself to stay rooted right where I am.

September feels like a month of movement — not rushing, just stepping a little more into the world.

This fall brings two meaningful moments I’ve been quietly preparing for. The first is the audiobook version of With Love, Nicole. Hearing the story aloud has been a powerful experience in its own right. There’s something different about listening — about allowing the words to meet you where you are, rather than turning the pages yourself. I’m grateful for another way to share this story with readers and listeners alike.

September also takes me beyond my writing desk and into community. I’ll be at the author booth during Norsk Høstfest, a place rooted in heritage, storytelling, and connection. Being present in person — meeting readers, having conversations, and sharing stories face to face — feels especially meaningful after so much of this journey has unfolded quietly.

These moments don’t replace the work happening behind the scenes; they simply reflect it. The writing continues. The learning continues. September is a reminder that stories don’t live only on the page or in sound — they live in connection.

I’m looking forward to seeing where this month leads.

August is a quiet month for me — and this year, that feels exactly right.

There isn’t a big announcement to share or a milestone to circle in bold. Instead, this season is about showing up consistently, doing the work that doesn’t always look like much from the outside, and trusting that progress is still happening even when it’s invisible.

Much of my time right now is spent writing, revising, learning, and sitting with ideas longer than I used to. It’s slower than I once expected, but steadier. I’m discovering that meaningful work often asks for patience before it asks for celebration.

There’s a different kind of confidence that comes from being immersed in the process rather than rushing to report on it. Pages are being shaped. Skills are being sharpened. Stories are being held gently until they’re ready to be shared.

August reminds me that not every chapter needs an announcement. Some are meant to be lived quietly, trusted fully, and allowed to unfold in their own time.

For now, I’m exactly where I need to be — doing the work beneath the surface and letting it grow.

My next book can be traced back to a single image—a reminder of the familiar truth that a picture can tell a thousand words.

One of my favorite photographs of my maternal grandparents shows my grandfather sitting in his army barracks during World War II. He’s looking up at a small shelf, where a picture of my grandmother rests. Even without context, the longing is unmistakable. Love, distance, duty, and silence all live inside that frame.

From that image, a story began to form.

The novel unfolds in Orrin, North Dakota, where my grandparents lived most of their lives, and follows parts of my grandfather’s tour during the war. At its heart, this story explores grief—particularly the kind that goes unnamed and unacknowledged.

There is the unresolved grief of a soldier who returns home and is told, simply, to get back to work. No space for what was seen, carried, or lost. Just a stiff upper lip and forward motion.

And there is another kind of grief—quieter, often unseen—the grief of parents who lose an infant daughter to pneumonia and are expected to carry on as if nothing has shifted forever.

This book lives in the spaces between what is felt and what is spoken. It explores how grief settles into families, how it is passed down, how unresolved grief changes one’s life trajectory, and how love persists even when words fail.

I can’t wait to invite you into this next journey with me—a story rooted in history, shaped by silence, and carried forward by love.

I had pretty much dismissed copyright, ISBN numbers, and the Library of Congress number.

The only time I ever noticed an ISBN was when I needed to look up a book. Beyond that, I never really gave much thought to how these numbers appear in every book—I just knew they were necessities. They were always there, quietly printed on a page near the front, doing whatever job they were meant to do.

What I didn’t realize was that each of these pieces lives on a different website, and all but the Library of Congress number come with a fee attached to them.

Who would’ve thought you had to pay for these needed items? I certainly didn’t—until I needed them.

Then there was another surprise: each format of a book requires its own ISBN. The same title—With Love, Nicole—needs one ISBN for the eBook, one for the paperback, and one for the audiobook. Three different numbers. Three separate registrations. Each with its own cost.

None of this is something I ever considered when I first started writing. At the beginning, I was focused on the story itself—on the words, the memories, the letters, the meaning behind them. The logistics of publishing lived somewhere far outside my awareness.

I share this not as a frustration, but as part of the learning curve of publishing a book for the first time. These details are often invisible to readers—and honestly, they were to me too. But behind every finished book is a long list of small, necessary steps that slowly turn a story into something real and shareable.

I’ve officially completed my Story Grid Mentorship, but I know this isn’t an ending. I’ll continue as part of the Story Grid Community in the months—and years—to come.

This experience has been humbling, invigorating, educational, and unforgettable. There are still moments when I catch myself pausing, almost in disbelief, that I was given this opportunity at all.

My writing has changed in ways I didn’t fully anticipate. The process itself now feels almost automatic—structured, intentional, and clear. I had a strong voice before, but this mentorship amplified it to an entirely new level. I write with more confidence, more purpose, and a deeper understanding of why each scene exists on the page.

As I move forward, I’m already deep into work on my next book—one that is not a memoir—and I can’t wait for you to eventually see what’s taking shape. My hope is to publish in early 2027, carrying forward everything I’ve learned here.

Perhaps the most unexpected gift of this journey has been the people. Alongside skill and knowledge, I’ve gained lifelong friendships—each one meaningful, each one notable in its own way. Writing can be solitary work, but this experience reminded me how powerful it is to learn and grow in community.

This chapter may be complete, but the work—and the writing—are just beginning.