Feeling sick again and worried about all I have let slide due to illness, inactivity, and fear. The least pressing is also, in theory, the most fun: the young adult novel I am supposed to write this month.
You can read a small excerpt here. [Click "turn" on the bottom right of the page then click the heart to load]
I was trained to take myself and writing very seriously. But writing this book calls back the books I read when I was young, and the books I wrote myself in battered spiral notebooks, after school then long into the night and early morning. Long before workshops, professors, agents, love. Long before I even knew about any of those things.
Whatever it is, whatever it means, wherever it takes me, I would like this to be real.
