eight months to go.


The funniest, most inconsistent friend I have is time: you never know when it’s going to speed up or slow down or pause all together or erupt into a million pieces, leaving you to try and figure out which goes where. Lately it’s been slow and easy: the mornings stretching long and quiet, the sunlight taking its time to fully reach our living room, the cooler air of autumn (finally!) slicing in through the screen door.

I’ve updated the balcony-garden, planting herbs and sweeping the floor and putting down cheap outdoor carpet. I’m writing more by hand, using NaNoWriMo as a time not to start another novel (not quite there, yet) but as a structured excuse to freewrite and practice my cursive. My parents came to visit and in a month my best friend will come to visit and in a month and a half S and I will fly to Hawaii. I can’t believe it’s already November. We were Mulder and Scully for Halloween and my hand still wants to write October every time I sit down and open my journal.

Eight months now till the release of The Lost & Found. I’ve never felt the importance of a stretch of time so fully, I’ve never spent so many hours plotting every single possible outcome of every decision I make, of every word I type. It’s good, in a way. Not so good, in another way. I think I need to practice just letting it happen as it will.

In the meantime, I make a lot of granola. I run for the longest stretches I’ve ever managed before. I buy new fountain pens and take photographs of clouds. You were a good one, October. Till we meet again.




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