I’m not gonna lie, sometimes my general optimism gets the best of me.

Over the last three years, I’ve allowed myself to become distracted, destroyed, and derailed. I’ve divorced, dated and loved and lost and attempted to rebuild myself and while it’s been mostly fun, it’s exhausting. I’ve lost track of what what I really want to do.

It’s an easy trap to fall into. It started with the notion that I want to be happy, and that writing no longer made me happy. This was a subversive thought, a slippery slope. Writing for the money doesn’t make me happy, but sharing my stories, creating for the sheer love of it, does bring me joy. Whether it’s a novel, a song, or a short story, I’ll be a writer until I die.

I’ve become an avid Kayaker, and love paddling the Florida springs and rivers. I’ve traveled domestically a bit and look forward to more. I’ve tried to learn to be still. I’d like to believe I’ve done some growing; I’m still a romantic at heart. I’ve met someone new who makes me believe. I’ve felt an internal shift, as I grow long in the tooth, knowing that time grows short. I have not said all of the things I feel the need to say with my life.

I’m writing again, and I’m sending out query letters for Angel of the Fall, my sixth finished novel. I hope to find a publisher within six months, and if not I’ll likely self publish it. I hope that doesn’t happen, as I’m not particularly good at self publishing.

I’m striving to be the best version of myself that I can be, and I’m not surrendering to the noise of disillusion, disappointment, and deceit that howl at all of us.