When I left my third grade teaching position of sixteen years, I knew I was leaving behind something important – my community. In a classroom, community presses in on you whether you want it or not. Students hover around you like bees. You’re injected into the personal lives of families participating in crippling family events and decisions. For an introvert this intensity leads to exhaustion. But the constant interactions also create a rich life. A school is a place strong and complex, and as an educator you’re at the center. Mine was filled with kind, intelligent colleagues, packs of dedicated students and their families. We all shared a living history. And I was going to leave it all to stay home, do more grocery shopping and write kid’s books?

When my wife and I decided I’d take a more central role for our family, I knew there were serious changes ahead. I’d contemplated them for years, and they terrified me. I was leaving my second home.

As fond as I am of words, it’s people and my relationships with them that give my writing meaning. Though I often hide from people, I do like them. My interpersonal interactions inform my thoughts. I’m not as much of a fan when they’re collected into a large mass, but put me in a corner one on one for a chat (if they’re not totally annoying) and I’m all in.

I was faced with a coming void. How was I going to fill it?

Not very well it turns out.

My first few weeks of a student-free school year were freeing, but overwhelming. I pinged off the walls. Clean counter. Put on music. Make coffee? Had coffee already. Read a book? Nah. Waste of precious writing time. Make coffee after all. Should write. Whoa. Didn’t need that coffee. Repeat. I knew immediately I needed to establish routines before I spun down the too-many-options vortex. I also knew I needed to build a new community.

While teaching, I crammed my writing life into the nooks and crannies of the day. I spoke to colleagues about ongoing novels in the faculty room. One year, while on vacation in local islands, I spoke with a historian seeking a potential plot for an early book. I shared ideas with my students. I was getting my feet wet.

For the next middle grade novel, I interviewed a classical pianist and a piano tuner. A piano moving company let me watch them work. I started to take myself more seriously. Early interactions and projects were a necessary part of my path, but writing was still a side project. An intriguing hobby.

With my new career move, my writing world had to stand on its own. Meeting others who tinkered with words in their quiet spaces felt like a necessary progression. I had attended writing conferences, but I attended more. I had taken classes with our local nonprofit writing organizations, but I signed up for more. I wrote more essays and articles, and with positive responses I became more confident in my abilities. This influenced how I interacted with my growing tribe. I mustered up enough bravery to share “good news” at our local chapter SCBWI meetings.

I had an early writing group that eventually dissolved, but it was an important step in realizing I wanted to take the kidlit craft seriously. An online writing conference led to my current critique group (Winged Pen!). Dedicated all, many agented, some published, some soon to be – we’re all making our way down the path as a tight knit, supportive clan. We raise each other up wherever we are on our personal journeys.

Now that my first traditionally published book is out, my feelers are out in new ways. Sharing my own journey informs students, teachers and readers along their own path, whether it involves writing or not. The museums that helped me with research have invited me for events. Via social media, I compliment other artists whose work I’ve admired. Those interactions have led to online friendships. Facebook has become a sea of connections to librarians, booksellers and former families where we share inspiration, laughs and frustration.

Through my efforts I’m discovering and forming a new collective. I’m filling the void. Through risk and effort, I’ve built a foundation for myself. Whether my next book is good, or whether or not it sells (The egg of doubt is still nestled comfortably in my craw. My craw sits just beneath my sternum) the professional friendships I’ve nurtured will be there for me.

How we spend our days is how we live our life, local educator and writer William Kenower has said. Or insert any cliché you’d like: journey not destination, smell flowers, time passes quickly, etc. Bottom line, if I chose the path I may as well make it a pleasant one. And book people are pleasant (though often grumbly).

Gabrielle Bates, a local poet and MFA student, recently shared this advice her father had given her when faced with a choice:

“He told me to figure out which choice would take the most courage, and then do that.”

She said it’s been some of the best advice she’s ever received.

I’ll be over here in my musty detached garage creating art, building community and reaping this life path of its abundant frustrations and charms. What will you do?

Mark Holtzen was an elementary teacher for sixteen years. Now on a “hiatus,” he’s writing middle grade novels, picture books and essays. His picture book, A Ticket to the Pennant, is out in world gathering up its own community. You can read more about him on his website, Facebook or Twitter. If you’re interested in historical ties to his picture book or just like old baseball photos you can catch a few on Pinterest.