Book Ideas That Choose You: A True Story of Creative Timing, Resistance, and Saying Yes

Some book ideas choose you, even when the timing feels all wrong. Learn what happens when you resist, explore, and ultimately say yes.

By Julie Tyler Ruiz

CONTENTS:

• How a book idea found me

• Seeing the story through someone else’s eyes

• From resistance to clarity

• Owning the story as mine

• Saying yes to the idea I didn’t ask for

• Writing the story while living it

How a book idea found me

Writers love talking about book ideas. There are so many methods to summon them, like journaling, using writing prompts, or simply observing your surroundings. In these instances, when inspiration comes from within, it's easy to take ownership of the ideas and feel connected to them from the start. 

But what do you do with the book ideas that find you? The ideas that come to you from someone else's mouth instead of your own mind? The ideas you can't claim as your own, but somehow seem destined for your ears and your writing desk? What do you do when the ideas seem to come at the wrong time, because you're already deep in other projects or your life is full to the brim, and yet the timing feels just right? 

This is the true story of one such idea, a book idea that didn't arise within me during a writing retreat or journaling session or even a quiet moment of reflection. It's an idea that came from my husband, while I was already investing my energy in two other book projects and countless business initiatives and also growing our second baby. 

Right now, three major creative projects are begging me for love and attention:

• A long-dormant novel that needs revision. 
• A nonfiction nutrition guide for mothers and babies.
• This new thing I didn’t see coming, but couldn't reject or delay once I really saw the value of it.

Conventional productivity wisdom would scream: Focus! Write one book at a time and finish it, before taking on a new project! But the creative life doesn’t always work like that.

Sometimes the book idea that wasn’t in your plan turns out to be the one that changes your creative direction, career trajectory, relationship with your audience, and even identity as a writer.

Seeing the story through someone else's eyes

In the spring of 2025, I finally dusted off the novel I’d shelved after parting ways with the literary agent who'd represented it. I had a fresh revision plan and a renewed sense of purpose. It felt good to re-engage my gifts as a storyteller, to lean into complex characters I'd created, the juicy ethical questions I wanted readers to wrestle with, and the unique narrative voice I'd worked so hard to cultivate. I was excited to see this project through and finally get it into readers' hands.

I was also developing a nonfiction book on nutrition for pregnant and postpartum women, drawing from my certification in nutrition and the desire to help women thrive emotionally and physically, at such a critical time in their lives. 

At this moment, I was 18 weeks pregnant, while caring for a two-year-old full time. My hands—and my writing calendar—were already full.

That's when my husband sat me down and pitched me a third book idea.

Here’s what you need to know: my husband is not a writer. He’s an engineer. And while he has his moments of creative inspiration, his work takes him deep into software applications and the latest technologies. He doesn't journey through the writing process to bring stories, articles, or books to life. He doesn't know from experience what it's like to surface an idea, explore its depth and breadth, to build its volume on paper and shape its contours, and then to work up the nerve to pitch it to literary agents or directly to readers, who might love or hate it. 

And yet, he knows everything about my creative writing projects and has watched me labor over drafts, collect feedback, and research publishing paths. From observation alone, he has a pretty good idea of what it takes to write a whole book.

With clarity and calm conviction, he said:

“You should write about getting pregnant naturally and giving birth at home after 40. Your story could give other women hope.”

He then went on to build a case. Such a book would have emotional resonance and business value. He also believed I would find personal value in telling a story based strictly on my lived experience: a story about believing in my body's ability to conceive and birth spontaneously, at an age when conventional medicine screams, "You're too old. The risks are too high. You won't be able to do this without intervention."

He wasn’t wrong about the story's value and what it could do for readers. I saw the real potential there: a timely angle, a built-in audience, and a deeply personal lens.

But my first response was resistance, because it wasn’t my idea. I hadn’t been the one to think it up, jot it down, and then speak of it aloud. It didn’t carry that same electric yes I usually feel when a book idea surfaces from within. And at the time, my creative plate was already full.

But something about the timing—and my husband's belief—stopped me from dismissing his suggestion.

I kept turning the book idea over in my mind. The timing felt inconvenient, but the truth was: I was already living the story he wanted me to tell.

Unlike my other projects, this book wouldn’t be buffered by fictional worlds or grounded in research and advice. It would be me on the page—my feelings, decisions, experiences, and body. It would be an intimate story with no safe distance, no made-up people or places, no professional framing to hide behind. Just the truth, as I’ve lived it.

And the idea hadn’t come to me during a writing retreat or a journaling session or a quiet moment of reflection. It came from my husband—an engineer, not a writer—but someone who listens closely and knows when I’m sitting on something meaningful.

He’s not only a logical thinker, but also, as it turns out, an unexpected muse. In this moment, I learned a valuable lesson: Creative support doesn’t always show up as a critique letter or brainstorming session. Sometimes it’s someone who knows your life, sees your strength, and believes in your voice before you do.

Sometimes the book idea that chooses you is the one that asks you to tell the truth, and to trust that’s enough.

From resistance to clarity

After that initial conversation with my husband, I didn’t make any big writing decisions. But I didn’t say no, either.

He brought it up a few more times, always calmly, never pushing. And each time, I listened quietly before laying out my counter-arguments:

"But honey, I just finished my nutrition certification, after working on it for 18 months, and I want to use it."

"But honey, I’m working on these two other books. Am I really supposed to brush them to the side for something new?"

"But honey, I’m pregnant and pretty soon we're going to have a newborn in our midst."

"But honey, our toddler needs hands-on care every single day. How can I squeeze in another project?”

"But honey, this is your idea, and a good one, but I didn't think of it."

All of these were true and, I would say, valid reasons to tuck my husband's book idea into a Google Doc, file it in a low priority folder, and resurrect it at some undefined time later. That way, I'd be free to focus on what I already had in front of me. But the more these conversations came up, the less force I felt behind my counter-arguments. 

At the same time, my body was shifting into second-trimester mode. I was reviewing the physiology of birth, assembling my birth team, and seeing "advanced maternal age" reminders everywhere.

And then, something shifted. The idea no longer felt like something my well-intentioned husband was distracting me with anymore. It felt more like an invitation to step into an unexpected and possibly transformative writing journey.

So I got curious. I drafted a rough outline—just nine bullet points—to explore the story's beats and themes. I shared it with my writing group, the Author Exchange. Their enthusiasm and the discussion we had gave me a jolt of clarity. The story ceased to be my husband's idea and started to belong to me.

And I could hear my own voice telling it.

Claiming the story as my own

As I fleshed out those nine beats, I saw scenes, chapters, and passages rising up without effort. The book began taking shape, not as a “maybe later” project sitting somewhere in Google Drive, but as something I had to write now.

It’s not like the nutrition book, which carries the pressure of accuracy, research, and science. It’s not like the novel, which requires invention, imagination, and fictional craft.

This one was and is already inside me. I’m living it now. No research required. No fictional world to construct. Just a true story unfolding in real time.

And if I didn't write it now, I’d lose something—the immediacy, the presence, the raw truth of what pregnancy in my forties feels like.

At 44, this was likely my last pregnancy. I didn't want to rely on memory later. I wanted to tell the story while still living it. I had about 20 weeks left to carry this baby, which was just enough time to carry a first draft.

So I committed. I moved my two other books—beautiful, worthy projects—to a later place in the calendar. I didn't abandon them; I just asked them to wait and I promised them I would dip back when inspiration struck, but for the time being, the story idea my husband suggestion would get my full attention.

I devised a simple writing plan: take those nine bullet points and write down every detail I could remember. Come September 2025, I would have a full account of:

• Approaching my forties childless
• Going out on a limb to meet my life partner and fall in love
• Starting a family
• Defying the prevailing opinions about what is and isn’t possible in motherhood. The voices that say, You waited too long. Your body can’t do this. You’ll need intervention. It’s not safe. The voices of conventional medicine, the billion-dollar fertility industry, and even women themselves, who’ve been told they’re out of time and options.

This would be an exercise in trusting my body and the timing (and source) of a new story idea, and give it my all.

My only job would be to tell the truth. Craft and refinement would come later. What I'd get on paper before September wouldn't be polished or reader-ready, but it would be real.

A book-shaped heartbeat.

Saying yes to the idea I didn't ask for

As I write this article at 21 weeks pregnant, I feel everyone calling for this true story I'm now telling:

• My husband who commissioned me to write it in the first place
• My children—one inside, one outside
• The me within me
• The future readers who might need to hear this story

This is creative power: building a book and a life at the same time. Making art about creating life while living that exact process.

And here’s what I keep coming back to: this book idea didn’t come from a book editor, a workshop, or my own notebook. It came from my husband. A man who doesn’t write, who isn’t my audience, who isn’t trying to publish anything.

And yet, he saw the shape of the story. The emotional stakes. The power behind the pages.

Sometimes the best book ideas don’t come from within or even from your intimate circle of fellow writers.  Sometimes they arrive in conversation, over dinner, in the middle of real life.

And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is listen and trust that what's inside you belongs on the page.

Writing the story while living it

If you’re standing at the edge of a project that wasn’t in your plan—but won’t leave you alone—this is your permission to explore it.

Book ideas that arrive unexpectedly might feel inconvenient. But they might also be perfectly timed. They might be the very stories that challenge the narratives you’ve absorbed about what’s realistic, what’s marketable, and what’s possible. Especially if you're living the stories right now. 

The stories that come alive while you live them don’t need to be polished right away. There will come a time for careful refinement. When they arrive, your job is to capture the truth, as it unfolds, while its heart is still beating.

So, let’s build books—and creative lives—that hold that kind of power.

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