I signed a two-book deal with my dream publisher. It’s the kind of thing I had always hoped I might do, but never really believed I would. Most days it still feels like a faraway dream (probably partly because I’m still editing the book and may be until I am nine hundred years old).
I wrote by the water and drew inspiration from the people and the boats and the salted air.
I met Norman, who is the most obscenely ridiculous animal I’ve ever known. He wakes me up by putting his tongue in my nostril and refuses to be cuddled but can often be found asleep on my arm.
I felt contemplative but not alone.
I cooked nearly every day, for family and friends. I was moderately not an asshole and so found new friends whom I like very much.
I put flowers in the kitchen and let them bloom and then die but didn’t let it get me down or motivate me to listen to music in minor keys.
I read and read and read and then a tower of books collapsed on me while I was sleeping so I just shoved it to the side and kept on reading.
I exercised. Like, nearly every day for the past four months. I even enjoyed it. I bought new jeans and didn’t cry at all.
I had my first bit of fiction published. Ever. Then my mum read it and liked it, which was the best part. I also wrote for Overland and had a piece accepted by Kill Your Darlings, which were both high on my bucket list (I don’t have a bucket list (I do, it’s mostly about eating different kinds of chocolate)).
I loved as ferociously as I know how.
I’m Anna, a digital strategist and writer who likes to drink 'Ice Tea' but doesn't understand why it's not called 'Iced Tea'. By night and occasionally morning, I eat things, write things, berate my children, walk my dogs and hug my chocolate.