Never in one year has so much changed for me. And, ironically, this is the first year during which I was actually in one place. The same job, the same zip code, and, most importantly, a finished manuscript. Without huge, explicit goals (or characters’ lives) to distract me, I’ve been faced with the oddest challenge of all: confronting myself. What’s come from it? A completely changed life, a completely changed body, and, most of all, an insane bank of personal experience from which to draw the next time I’m brave enough to put my pen to paper. To switch from counting vertebrae bumps back to counting words. Identity—whether one is calling herself a writer or a human or anything else—is perhaps the steepest slope of all.
Tomorrow is my birthday. As I’ve said before, I’m not one for milestones, but I can’t help acknowledging what I’ve been through the past year. The biggest lesson I’ve learned is that I’m my own worst enemy. Here’s to looking back on twenty-three without a heavy heart, if at all possible; but more importantly, here’s to hoping twenty-four starts with a smile, and that there’s a toast or two down the line, too.
M
