Last year today we were going out to dinner to celebrate the release of my first book, The Half Life of Molly Pierce and today the morning is grey and I am working on a new book, one without a title, one almost done after weeks of doing nothing else but writing- until I feel like my brain is filled with sludge.
It’s been an absolute joy to be back in this place again, this swamp of writing, pulling weeds up to find a spot of dry land firm enough to sit down with my computer. That is exactly what it feels like. I’ve been moody, tired, sleepless, messy, unkempt. I’ve been inspired by something I have yet to name. I’ve been dreaming of a vacation in the middle of the desert when I’m done, a reward, just me and the first read-through after the first draft, which can reveal so many things. Oh, this is good! or Oh my, what was I thinking.
My two year anniversary of moving to Los Angeles passed recently and of course now I love it here, of course now when I leave and come back, my plane dipping over neighborhoods spreading and multiplying for miles and miles, I feel relaxed. I feel at home. I feel like all the decisions I made, so long ago and so far away, were the right ones.
My next book will come out in one year, give or take. The Lost & Found. I wrote it here, at this desk, on this blue chair, with this stained coffee mug next to my laptop. I wrote it in one summer, a summer where everything changed rapidly and I felt truly depressed again for the first time in years. It comes and goes like it’s always come and gone, a sense of hopelessness and whatthefuckamidoing and why why why whywhy.
I’ve written 36,000 words in fourteen days. I can’t remember the last time I felt this tired. Or this happy. Or this tired.