I’m a terrible blogger. In fact, I think if you scroll back through my blog, you’ll find that most of my blog posts begin with that exact line. “I’m a terrible blogger.” And I’m always telling myself I should do better, and yet… what to say?
I know a lot of authors blog about craft, and that’s fine. But who the hell am I to try and tell somebody how they should or shouldn’t write? I don’t know nearly as much about the industry as I probably should, so I don’t want to write about that. I don’t want to blog about any of the random shenanigans that recur over and over and over again in the m/m world, or the wider romance world, because they mostly just bring me down. So, what does that leave?
I guess it leaves me. And again, some authors are quite open about their personal lives, but I’ve never been comfortable doing that. Besides which, my life is boring. I taxi my kid around. I clean my kitchen. I forget about the laundry in the washer and then have to wash the load again. (Speaking of which… be right back!) But there is nothing about my life that’s exactly memoir-worthy, you know?
And yet the truth is, I’ve had a massive shift of perspective in the past few months. And at the risk of sounding trite, it occurred to me yesterday — and continues to astound me today — how truly grateful I am to be here, right at this point in time, at this stage of my life. Summer is drawing to a close, and fall is sneaking in. Right now, it’s raining outside, and thunder is rolling off the mountains. I turned off the AC (finally!) and opened the windows and exchanged my shorts for yoga pants, my flip-flops for thick socks, and all I could think was, “I’m so ready for fall!” I’m ready for football and pumpkin patches and soup simmering on the stove. (Not that I’ll actually cook any. I’m dreaming of soup elves.)