I am embarking on a new project that feels a bit like becoming my own client. Over the years, I’ve told many people that their lives are a manuscript, and now, thanks to a literal ghost in my machine, I’m forced to take my own advice. This essay is the first in "1997 Project Romance," a series where we'll deconstruct a real-life romance by reverse-engineering the emails that started it all. It is the unvarnished "source code" of my own history, showing you how the power of storytelling can be built from the mundane moments of our daily lives.
It started, as most forgotten things do, during a digital house-cleaning. I was migrating files from a hard drive the size of a brick—a relic from a past life—when I saw it. A file I hadn't thought about in decades. Just one tiny file. With such an insignificant file name that it could mean anything or nothing, but in reality, it meant everything.
LETTERS_1997.zip
A ghost in the machine. A digital time capsule sealed twenty-nine years ago.
For a moment, I just stared at the name. My finger hovered over the right-click button of my mouse. Part of me wanted to just delete it, to let the past remain a neatly compressed, unexamined memory. I kinda didn’t want to unzip that file because the woman I am now, the 55-year-old publishing partner, knows that some drafts are best left in the drawer—never to see the light of day.
In all honesty, I also wasn’t sure if I could remember the password. Past Me thought it was a good idea to password protect the zipped file and all the Microsoft Word files in it, then promptly forget about it. What on earth possessed me to do that? It was a very real possibility that even if I wanted to, I might not have been able to open the files.
But the woman I was then, the 26-year-old who typed those letters... I could almost feel her tapping on the inside of the screen, waiting to be let out.
So I clicked.
And with the soft whir (more like the crrr-crrr-crrr of my hard drive—it sounded painful!) of the unzipping process, almost three decades of carefully curated distance vanished. There they were. Dozens of password-protected Word files, a mountain of correspondence between me and the man who was my boss—and who would become my husband.
I opened the first one. Then another. And another. The voice was mine, but also not. It was the voice of a young woman trying to be clever, professional, and careful, all while recklessly, thrillingly breaking every rule in the book.
The young woman who wrote those emails had no idea she was crafting a story. She was just trying to navigate a high-risk, high-wire act of an office affair without getting fired or falling completely apart.
The woman I am now, reading them with the benefit of 29 years of hindsight and the evolved perspective of a career spent in the publishing trenches? I saw a manuscript staring back at me.
Editor's Note: If this story landed on my desk today from a debut author, I'd recognize it in a heartbeat. I'd see the structure, the plot points, the narrative engine. I'd start making notes in the margin: a classic romance built on a foundation of some of the genre's most powerful tropes. We have the Forbidden Love (Boss/Employee, Age Gap), the Forced Proximity (albeit a digital one, spanning continents), and a heavy dose of Secret Relationship angst. The inciting incident is clear, the stakes escalate with each exchange, and the character arcs are undeniable. It's all there.
For over a decade, I've helped authors find the story within their stories. I've taught them to look at their own lives, to see the universal patterns, the narrative gold hiding in their personal histories—personal histories filled with stories waiting to be told, for people waiting to read them, for those who want something real, something raw, something beyond a trope (okay, we love tropes, but still…) that’s not just a checklist of vibes.
These are the stories readers are actually hungry for—the ones that feel lived-in and honest.
They may not become an overnight TikTok viral sensation, but they will stand the test of time.
I want to help authors write the kind of evergreen stories that people come back to because they hold the truth of the human condition, rather than chasing those “secret-cinnamon-roll-Daddy-keeps-squirrel-food-in-his-pockets-loves-soggy-popcorn” vibes found in characters who only know how to growl and say “Baby Girl” in a creepy voice. Dude…
And here was mine. The origin story of the publishing partner I am today wasn't forged in a boardroom or a university course. It was forged in every keystroke of these emails. This was my first, most personal case study in the power of storytelling.
So, I'm taking my own advice. I'm becoming my own client… again! Again because if you’ve started reading the Doha Diaries, you’ll know this is not the first time I’m baring my soul in the name of storytelling and building a narrative that’s worth an audience.
This series is the act of me, the editor, taking a red pen to me, the character. We’re going to unzip this file together and deconstruct 29 years of love and partnership, one risky, risqué email at a time. Some of those emails were quite saucy, so in the name of politeness, I might leave out some of the naughtier bits. Ahem!
The Writer's Lesson: This is the power of the "found object." Sometimes, the key to unlocking your most powerful story is a dusty box in the attic or, in this case, a forgotten zip file on a hard drive. Your personal history is your richest, most authentic source material. There is immense value in the simple act of saving everything—the drafts, the letters, the digital debris of a life lived. It is all seed. It is the raw material that, years later, can be refined into a manuscript that resonates.
There is, of course, a strategic risk in this kind of transparency. Choosing to write under your own name—exposing the "source code" of your private life—is a heavy decision. For many, a pen name offers the safety of a mask. It provides protection from criticism, protection against professional repercussions for those working sensitive day jobs, or even a way to manage personal fallout while maintaining a layer of necessary mystique. But for this project, I’m choosing the raw route. If I want to build a brand based on being a "partner" to other creators, I have to be willing to show my own work, risks and all.
Our story begins with a seemingly innocent request, a test of boundaries disguised as a question about a jar of candy.
It all started with jelly beans.
xoxo, Deanna.
Let’s Chat!
If this dive into my 1997 archives has sparked a thought about your own "ghosts in the machine"—or if you have a box of letters you’re still too terrified to unzip—come find me on Substack. That’s where I’m spending most of my time these days, digging into the weeds of story, strategy, and the grit of the writing life. You can also catch my latest updates via my newsletter, or reach out the old-fashioned way via email or Facebook. I’d love to hear from you.
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