So here it is:
I’ve always wanted to write a book, a novel. And have it be published. I’ve always wanted my name on a strip of treated leather that binds 150+ pages that people stroke with their forefinger and display on a shelf. Since I was little, I’ve wanted to be a writer. And just right now, sitting on a lumpy hide-a-bed couch in a (our) flat in Tunbridge Wells, it just occurred to me that now is the time. I have no idea where it’s going, but I know how it begins- and it’s right here, right now. I am writing a book. My book. A book by me. I’ll share snippets with you along the way.
I’ve been in the UK for a little over two weeks now. I’m settled and I’m lonely, but not in a sad way. I’m lonely in a way that makes me brave. I feel strong, creative, and fresh. When David and I decided to move, I told him I wasn’t going to compromise my vision, I wasn’t going to work just to be paid, and I wasn’t going to do things I don’t believe in. Well, here I am, with ample time on my hands, an amazing support system, and ten strong fingers. I am going to write this book.
I just wanted to tell you that.