2 Jan

2022 was a lot. A lot of stuff I never expected. I got married to the best human in the world. I bought a nice home. I published my second book. I wrote (am still writing) a third book. I started a newsletter and a Patreon. I wrote about approximately a gazillion perfumes. I was interviewed by some of my favorite writers, and there was a small feature on me and my book in my No. One all-time-favorite magazine! I colored my hair the shocking neon blue poetry of all my favorite 80s rock star fashion dolls!

That’s a lot. Not sure if I can top that. I’m not sure if I want to try.

Is 2023 the year to read two hundred books? To knit an impossible, magical mystery shawl? To make a soup so stunning that grandmas feel a satisfying flutter in their hearts all the world over when I slurp it?

To do the small, quiet work that no one sees, that I’ll never talk about, that I’ll busily fiddle with all night long only to see it tear under the accumulated weight of a fine morning mist, and begin the next day again to make it faster, stronger, better?

I don’t know! I bet this spider doesn’t know, either. I bet she’s annoyed that I’m bothering her and is thinking man, just let me do my work! Thanks for the inspo, spider, wherever you are. I’ll get to it, too.

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