I’ve been in London this week. Coincidentally, I’ve been reading my diaries from my junior year abroad. It’s 43 years later and here are all the things I can’t believe: I can’t believe I survived my depressive and manic episodes. I can’t believe I’ve been stable for 30 years. I can’t believe I married at all and that I’m still married. I can’t believe I have a daughter and we are close. I can’t believe I’ve published three books and have just written, at 63, my first novel. I can’t believe this blog helped me develop my voice and bring a community of like-minded writers to my door. I can’t believe I cherish life no matter the slings and arrows I still aim at myself. I can’t believe this city holds so many sad and lonely memories and that I’m around to indulge.

Where are you saddest memories lodged?

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It’s a fine line between advocating for yourself and being a douche bag. And it’s really important to know when you’re crossing it and I’m speaking to myself right now. My efforts on my book are fully in the marketing now, which means pushing, pushing, pushing. Writing letters, emails, sending galleys, doing my social media, blah blah blah. In other and much better news, I’m sticking to the challenge of writing every day and I’m not saying it’s pretty, but it’s something.

Are you with me in writing bootcamp or what? Progress reports please!

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