I’m currently writing from Orange County, where–for the first time in years–the region is experiencing daily June Gloom in the mornings. I’m in California, firstly, to move up my beloved dog to Washington. My dear Bellatrix will hit the road with me up the coast all the way to my northern home. She’ll walk in a rainforest for the first time. She’ll discover moss and run through Jurassic Park-like ferns and damp, foreign terrain. She’ll live with me: a dream of mine for years, a dream I didn’t think was a possibility as recent as two months ago. This is happening.
My other reason for my California trip is to bid farewell to all of my long-term doctors and do final hurrah check ups. I turn twenty-six in August and will be transitioning to Washington’s public health care. That is happening. It’s beyond my control and all I can do is fight for proper treatment and medications, not panic, and hope. I’m lucky. Washington is the best state for public health care. I’ll be okay.
In May, I finished up the last of my line edits on NOTHING LEFT TO BURN. It’s now in copy edits and has a gorgeous (so, so gorgeous) cover that will be ~revealed~ June 26th and, equally exciting, it’ll be up for pre-order the week prior. This is all happening. This dream. This hope I’ve been working for my entire (young adult and) adult life. I started writing the first version of this novel when I was thirteen and have been re-writing, revising, learning to write, again and again, querying, writing, fighting for this book ever since.
I don’t know when I’ll truly believe that NOTHING LEFT TO BURN is being published. Maybe when I hold an ARC in my hands this summer. Maybe when I hold a finished copy in January. Maybe when I see it on bookshelves on March 13th.
March 13th. March used to be my least favorite month but, oh, that’s now changed.
March is usually my least favorite month but, oh, that’s now changed.
At the start of May, I flew to the Bay Area to help my older sister with my two-year-old niece and their moving to Reno. It was a sudden and quick trip: five days with a roadtrip to Reno squeezed in. But it forced me out of my go, go, go, work, work rythm, and oh I will never turn down an opportunity to see my niece. And, after the trip, still early May, I became severely sick. In May, I wrote seventy pages set in Alaska and struggled relentlessly with a synopsis. At the end of May, I withdrew from the MFA program I’d planned to start this summer. It was when I started applying for a private personal loan to cover rent for the next year that it hit me: no, this can wait, this is a financially terrible idea, no, it can wait, it’s not now or never.
In May I made some good decisions.
In April and May, I walked into the forest regularly, and I’m learning to appreciate the sun, and I learned to let myself take days off, letting myself stop working after I’ve put my time in, seeing new and old friends. In April and May and now June, I’m focusing on the differentiation of what I want to do and what I need to do and what I think I need to do but don’t need to do: I too often get the three confused.
And now it’s June and June kicked off with my flight to California and I’m still here, sorting through a lifetime of books, spending time with my parents and my brother and my dog (oh my, that girl has no idea what’s in store for her), seeing doctors every day, and (attempting) to squeeze some work in. It’s my older sister’s anniversary and she and my brother-in-law are vacationing, so–surprise!!!–more time with my niece (which I did not know what was happening).
And so, with the roadtrip home next week, I won’t be back to my desk until the 16th–so deep into this month–and I’m trying not to let this freak me out; I’m focusing on why this is the case: my health and moving my baby home with me.
This summer: holding a galley of my book in my hands, pass pages, seeing more old friends (fingers crossed), finishing my proposals (again) and letting them go enough to send them onward to my agent, a booked two months of freelance projects (so, so happy about this), and PITCH WARS (and all the better: I’m co-mentoring with one of my dearest friends, Rachel Griffin)!
But, god damn, I miss my young sister fiercely. The last time I saw her there was snow on the ground in Utah. The next time I’ll see her there will be snow again on the ground in Utah. Why is Australia so far?
Hi. I moved. I mentioned I was moving, right? Only an hour south but that hour south has made all the difference. My backyard is a forest, and that forest has trails that lead to a beach or lead to more trees. It’s quiet. It’s so quiet, and it rains ever so slightly more. A hush exists. Strangers smile. My neighbor offered me an ice pack when I fell down my spiral stairs, when she heard my thuds and cry, and that was the strangest warmth. And, oh, driving home means taking the 101 north, and life is always something special when home entails the 101 north (hi, Humboldt). And from the 101, my exit is dark. I have to use my brights and squint and drive real slow as I weave through trees, it’s something like a maze that I learned within a day but it feels safe, protected, beautiful. And yes, I’m so dramatic, but when I enjoy the immediate commute to and from home, I know I’m lucky. This element reminds me of Colorado Springs, when I took the long way home through Garden of the Gods; when I lived in Chipita Park, curving up the mountain pass about Manitou every day. It was a balm. After the exhaustive six months in Renton, to have my home be a balm feels so strange and lovely.
But, oh my, February was weird. Is February ever not weird? A rapid attempt of settling, of organizing, of finding a new work rhythm–all cut off by a quick trip to Utah. And then, the last full week, last week, an utter slam: strep throat, hip woes, falling down my stairs, my Mini (finally) breaking down, and a stomach bug. Last week nearly did me in. But I saw my family this month, I fell more in love with where I live, I saw a concept for Nothing Left to Burn’s book cover (!!!!), and–on many days when it felt improbable–I got myself up from the floor. I want to better focus on the good. I have a home, a workspace, a forest, health and support. And while, yes, simultaneously I feel like I’m in the thick of something–life heavy in ways that are both private and hard to articulate–it’s okay. The future of my life in Olympia isn’t stable when I so desperately want it to be. I’m living month to month, living on hope and dumb luck. And that’s fine. It’s only temporary. And I’m here now.
I am lucky. So I’ll hope and push for that luck to continue.
What I’m working on in March: the next round of NLTB edits, a meaty freelance project (I hope!), two proposals and WIP drafting, lovely Indiana visitors, the onslaught of longer days that March always thrusts onto me (I take it personally), and the continued intention of taking care of myself before anything else.
I hope you find your way outside this month. I’ll be right here.
bio from 2011-2015
I am Heather. I was born and raised in Southern California, but can’t admit this without insisting I spent a chunk of my teens in Colorado Springs
I like to pretend I’m weird but I’m really just as normal as you. I also claim to be a lion, courageous and fierce, roaring like a mad fool with my tangled hair, when I’m all too often a pansy, shaking and whimpering in airports because I don’t want to go home, I want to go THERE, but where is there? Why there is anywhere but here! I like to travel and move and then travel some more. When I’m not traveling, you’ll most likely find me under my desk, biting my knuckles red. Not for earthquake protection, no, but rather to hide from the sun that too often fades my words. There is no greater tragedy than a faded word. The photo above is from Spring 2010. I’ve aged a bit, but clearly not much as I’m still sometimes IDed at the airport for being an unaccompanied minor. Yes, yes, Frontier Lady. Yes, I’m definitely fourteen. So kind of you to notice!
I love to scream in pursuit of the ideal word-filled day. Even if it’s just a sentence, just a thought, just a line scrawled onto my astronomy lecture table, I must write and write and write and write every day of my life and do you get the point yet, Dear Universe? I need more writing time. As a couch-restricted anemic teenager, I composed two novel-things and revised them both until they became bloody and sticky from my excessive tending. Those were the golden writing days. But in my current daily life I aim to balance the hyper writer child that lurks in my gut with the obsessive academic that dances in the place where my spleen would be if I still had a spleen.
When the rage inside my head becomes too loud, I sometimes come here. I whine. I post silly photos. I pretend to know what I’m talking about. I sometimes shut the site down for periods at a time because I feel too exposed and scared and you know how it goes. I also sometimes shout. You’ll know when I’m shouting because I’ll use caps lock and abuse profanities. I probably should be more private and professional. But I am what I am and I actually make an effort not to censor myself. I also, clearly, enjoy being dramatic in the Redwood Forest.
When blogging, I have a fetish for looooong sentences that would destroy my English professors’ red pens because they never ever end and I love them so because they make me want to go on a raging roller coaster that lacks proper brakes and I advise you to just go with it, to simply follow these sentences, these crazy improper, what is she even saying, where is she even going, COME BACK, COME BACK, sentences because if I can’t do this in English class then I sure as hell am going to do it on my personal blog that holds my name. So if I want to write a paragraph of a sentence, then damn it, I will. As a side note, I like to think my fiction makes a bit more sense than my blogging.