Tonight, I hit 70,000 words on my latest manuscript. It still has a ways to go – two chapters and a conclusion, then it’s off to the publisher for edits – but, for whatever reason, this feels like a milestone worth noting. Could be the windows flung open, four bunnies and a robin playing Oonch
Want to hear something crazy? I say, sliding into the corner booth. I’m pregnant! I haven’t seen my friend Shannan in months, so we meet on a sunny afternoon for Pan-Asian in a sleepy lake town. I wear overalls. We split banh bao. She sips my chamomile tea. We chat for hours – book progress,
I’ve seen the book covers, the IGTVs, the keynotes – women in eyelash extensions imploring you to stop playing small. Commandment after commandment, we’re offered the vaguest of measurements to stack ourselves against. Go all in! Show up big! Shine brighter! Climb higher. Run faster. Dream bigger. You were made for more! Brick by brick,
1. During courtship, a male Adelie penguin presents his chosen female with a pebble as a gift. If the female accepts, they mate for life.
All has been quiet. A small boy with a fistful of action figure cake toppers weaves between piles of folded towels, sheets. It’s laundry day. It’s been laundry day for six years over here, is what a girlfriend said to me recently. (Same.)
Few will be surprised to hear I take baby proofing as simply as they come.
Dear friends: If you’ve visited this space before, you’ll know I’m in Year 12 of professional blogging. A decade of hitting publish, hovering over delete, googling the correct usage of “past” and “passed” (still can’t nail it). Twelve years. This makes me an Internet teenager, and can I be frank here? I’m feeling it. I’ve