What Mom Blogging Taught Me About Writing Women’s Fiction

“Velveeta + Vulnerability.” That was the title of an essay I wrote during the beloved, chaotic heyday of mom blogging. Yes, Velveeta—as in the vividly yellow-orange mac and cheese product of our collective childhoods. Beneath the cheeky title was an earnest realization: Women online weren’t seeking perfection. We were searching for recognition. 

(Creating Depth in Feel-Good Fiction.)

At the time, like many millennial women, I was writing from the thick of young motherhood—two in diapers, coffee reheated three times, timidly searching for mom friends at the neighborhood park. I wasn’t trying to write books yet. Frankly, I was just hoping for survival on scheduled naps and a prayer, my trusty laptop becoming a sudden outlet for creativity, sanity, and connection. 

Today, 10 years later, deep into a four-book traditional deal with a dream publishing house, I reflect often on the years that made me a novelist. And you know what? More than journalism, more than business writing, more than my master’s degree, it was mom blogging that forged me the most. 

Long before I learned about character arcs and publishing trends, I was a young mom nursing my baby over a crumb-covered keyboard. Motherhood and the internet quietly taught me how women endure life upheaval, what we hide behind humor, and what makes readers feel seen. 

One of the first things mom blogging taught me was that the more honest the essay, the bigger the impact. Unhinged rambles? Relatable. Baby weight? Yes. Miscarriages? Excruciating. Full-on identity crises through some of the gnarliest years you have known? What grace that I’m not alone. 

The posts of mine that resonated most were always the ones I wrote from my deepest place of vulnerability—the ones where I admitted loneliness, insecurity, and tensions even inside a wonderful marriage. The strange grief of temporarily shelved ambitions, even while living the life I had dreamed of.

When I eventually sat down to write my first novel, When We Blinked, I stared at the blinking (pun intended) cursor with the unshakable sense that holding back would serve nobody. Once again, it was time for radical honesty. Could I do that? Of course. I’d done it for years online. Dozens of posts. Thousands of words. Hundreds of women saying, “Me too.” 

Semi-surprisingly, I reached into the same emotional well as I crafted characters who, like me, battled specific fears and human struggles. Spoiler: once again, the scariest, most honest elements of that first book (and those since) hit readers the hardest. 

As with blogging, women don’t reach for fiction in search of polished scripts and perfect heroines. They read books to see themselves. 

Motherhood is emotional, yes, but it’s also often absurd. One minute you’re desperate and done. The next, you’re crying because it’s all going too fast and Daniel Tiger has sent you spiraling into gratitude with yet another life lesson. Ten minutes later, you’re cracking up while your daughter conducts her orchestra of stuffed animals with a feminine hygiene product. 

Mom blogging taught me the rhythm of humor inside hard things. How a well-timed joke can make emotion land harder instead of softening it. How women often use humor not to avoid pain, necessarily, but to survive it. Sometimes to parse its meaning. 

That tonal balance shapes so much of modern women’s fiction, including, I hope, my own. The stories I love most are rarely straight comedy or straight heartbreak. They’re both at once—because that’s how real life feels.

This I know: If you can make someone laugh while they’re sad, it is a sacred gift. 

One of the cherished perks of blogging was getting a front-row seat to what resonates with women. The more I shared, the more I found myself tuning into the world around me: conversations at the zoo, the kindness of strangers, the narrative flow of a meltdown in Target. 

As a writer, I was constantly studying dialogue, character, and humanity in the wild. What did people say to me as an obviously frazzled young mom? How did my girls view the world? Would things always feel this hard? 

The best scenes feel lived. The best dialogue is written the way we actually speak—with rhythmic cadence, spot-on slang, and natural interruptions. And the best characters, in my opinion, are inspired by people we’ve known. Mom blogging sharpened my fiction toolkit in profound, lasting ways. Never stop paying attention. 

I learned quickly through mom blogging that the feedback loop cannot define you as a creator. Infinite likes? Brilliant reviews? Crickets? Mean-spirited comments? Welcome to modern writing, no matter the platform. 

Sharing your art with the world is an act of courage, full stop. You’re essentially saying, “I made this thing. Now it’s yours.” It takes great effort to shut out the noise—the market, the algorithms, and the opinions. But I implore you: We must. Reach into your heart. Eyes forward. Head high. By writing for you, in turn, you will always find them. 

Mom bloggers were finessing the art of scene writing all along—not through literary theory, but through observation. Instead of simply saying motherhood felt overwhelming, we described the gummy countertops, chubby hands, the sting of the mom-friend prospect not texting us back. Instead of merely saying a season felt magical, we wrote down the moments on playgrounds and kitchen floors that provided transfiguration. 

Women tend to notice details. That instinct—to pay attention to both the physical and emotional texture of daily life—became one of the greatest writing gifts of my blogging years. Specificity invites intimacy. It’s just the truth.

“Really, I think any common ground can be a pathway to vulnerability—to deeper truths, built trust, and tears. None of us are alone, but to know it, we have to open our cupboards.”

I published those words for the still-popular online mom blog Coffee + Crumbs in 2016, with a baby on my lap and a toddler at my ankles. My cupboards look different these days: books instead of blog posts, fiction instead of facts, Trader Joe’s take on Takis instead of Goldfish. But the truths inside remain timeless. Now and always, fling your doors open.

We’re ready.

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