I’ve been, maybe, the worst blogger in the history of the world. I apologize (it feel’s like I’m always saying “sorry” here … sorry for that!) …
I just returned from a trip out west, the place where it all started for me. 365 days I stood on Rialto Beach and said “it’s time to figure my life out and live it authentically.” I knew what that meant, where I needed to go and what I needed to do … now, I’m published. It was a crazy year, but the accumulation of it couldn’t have been more justified … I needed to stand there again and feel the completion, the accomplishment.
Today, I turn 29. The first year of writing has come and gone so quickly, I don’t really know whether to celebrate or cry because it was an amazing year, and I know I’ll never go back. I’ll be that innocent again, or at things so simply. It feels like I grew into this so quickly.
But here’s what’s crazy.
The day I turned 28, I decided to write a novel … the day I turn 29, I have an article about that novel feeding out of World News. I don’t know if it gets better than that … it was a fluke of timing or the natural unfolding of things. But either way, it’s amazing.