Family. I’ve always loved this word.

Like most Americans, my family heritage is a mixed bag of nationalities. My grandfather on my dad’s side was a first generation immigrant from Italy. My mother’s family was from Ireland, Austria, Hungary, and the Baltic countries. Even so, I primarily identify as an Italian American.

Italians have a strong family bond and we tend to stick together. I look Italian with olive skin, dark eyes, and thick unruly hair. I gesture wildly with my hands when I talk. I equate feeding people with love and I make my children sit down most nights to eat a giant plate of food.

If you’re reading this blog, you probably know I’m trying to get a manuscript published. Sometimes, it feels like I’m peddling a dead skunk that no one wants. I’ve worked on my manuscript for several years, chipping away at it in between making dinner or flipping laundry, Christmas shopping and throwing birthday parties. I’ve written a chapter of my book, courtside, at my daughter’s tennis match. I’ve made edits in the grocery store. I even sent off a query letter to a literary agent from carpool. I misspelled the agent’s last name in the opening salutations. (While I’m an excellent multi-tasker, this wasn’t one of my finer moments.)

Creating a fictional world has taught me a ton. But the most important lesson I’ve learned hasn’t been about writing or editing, drawing people to a social media site, or crafting the perfect letter to an agent.

It’s much simpler.

I’ve learned my family is larger than the people who are connected to me by blood and genetics. I have many of those for sure, and I’m grateful for the support of each one. But lately, I’ve been touched by a great many other individuals who don’t actually have a branch on my family tree.

There’s my crazy Indonesian friend who threatened to unleash a reign of voodoo on her peeps who didn’t like my Facebook page.

I have my Sweet Briar College sisters (holla holla!!!), who have my back no matter what.

I have my teacher friends who edit my own edits, my social worker friend who keeps everything real by repeating “It’s fine!” every chance she gets, my pals who offer to read chapters —without me asking. They reassure me that my work isn’t a dead skunk, or road kill of any kind.

I have my children who tell me my words are “impactful” to their generation, but I really should calm down and stop acting so “angsty” all the time.

The writing world is tough and the publishing world is even tougher. I’m thankful every day to be surrounded by good people to help me get through the highs and the lows. I call them my family.