This is one of my favorite hipsta pics so far. A complete accident. My face looks mean and ragged, not my best angle, but for the composition I will sacrifice my vanity, just this once. I like the depth.
Yeah, um. So.
I began this blog as way to keep myself connected to writing after the publication of my first novel and subsequent birth of my children, thus the original title, "The Pen and the Poop."
Because making the decision to start a family on the heels of my first book deal was, well, let's say...challenging.
And I've wanted to tell you for some time, that, well, the novel I mentioned starting back in October when I was mooning over Twilight?
After years of blogging about everything from my son's teal poop to my parenting/lumbar/creative woes, to my (at times) zealous passions for meat, yoga and Byron Katie, my confessionary confection has borne linear, chaptered fruit. I finished my second novel. It's rough and pocky and a little lumpy, but spherical enough to have a chance of being overstocked in a warehouse one day.
And though the news is relevant, it feels a little like I'm jinxing myself, especially as I sit here in the local coffee shop very much not polishing my globular sweetness in order to blog instead.
But who doesn't love irony.
The point is, I'm feeling celebratory, procastinatory appreciation for all this blog has delivered, no matter the time it took.
(It took five years. Illustrated in black and white. And clicks and links. And flesh and blood.)