I can imagine a lot. I can imagine a perfect book. (Frankly, it looks a lot like The Piper’s Son by Melina Marchetta.)

But my skills as a writer don’t stretch so far. At least, not yet. I’m still such a novice.

I’m very proud of Truest. I know it’s not perfect, but it’s the very best I could offer at age 33. I’m turning 34 on Sunday. I wonder what my very best will look like this year and next.

My editor “set me loose” for the next week to see what damage I can do to my manuscript of Ardor Novel. I’m thrilled. Terrified. Trying so hard to remember to honor the process: write, feedback, revise, repeat. I’m on step one of a long process. I’m at Go.

Writing is such a fearsome thing.

I love it; I am afraid of it.

Trying to remind myself of the gameplan, which is mostly the voice of Anne Lamott: Bird by bird. Butt in seat, hands on keyboard. Show up. Shitty first drafts.

And my own voice: Choose joy.