2021

Hello dear readers!

I’m afraid this blog went the way of my childhood journal. I had a small, black leather journal that I promised myself I would be faithful about keeping a daily log in. For years. Half the entries start off with me apologizing for not writing recently, that life got in the way and I would be better.

Ah, to have the life I did as a young tween.

Not that I’d got back to that time, like ever. But my adult problems are just a wee bit more complicated. If my life were a recipe, it would look like this:

1 Six-year old child

1 two-tear old child

1 husband

1 mortgage

2 jobs

1/2 a job as a writer that fails at blogging

2400 bills (this is an estimate)

1 pandemic

0 things to do in New England in the pandemic winter to entertain aforementioned children

This recipe calls for exhaustion at the highest degree, and the inability to get my thoughts down in anything resembling coherence for long periods of time.

Note: If you are the kind of person starting work emails with “I hope your holidays were relaxing and rejuvenating,” please stop that immediately. Your colleagues with small children are not okay and if anything we’re somehow more tired than we were in 2020.

Anyway, this is a long winded way of saying I feel like writing something, I’m sorry I’ve been busy writing other somethings, and I’m querying at the moment with the hopes of taking my writing career in a new direction altogether.

Except the query I just sent had a typo in the title of the book.

Son of a…