Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone!
This is may not be a love-post, per se, but I was reminded of it this weekend and it feels right today.
I hope you all enjoy a love- and joy-filled day no matter where God has you now.
(This essay has since been published by The Avenue.)
My book turned one on Saturday.
Now, I don’t have any kids—a fact my students remind me of frequently—but this feels significant. Or, actually, it feels like it should feel significant. Mostly it just feels weird and factual: One year (and two days) ago, my writing found its way into the hands of a lot of people all at once.
I should say something more about that, right? Or maybe I should run some kind of timely promotion like any good seller of stuff. [Okay, that I actually did. Check it out.] Or maybe I should address the many questions people ask me like, what’s next? Are you staying in Baltimore? What are you writing now? Seriously, are you really staying in Baltimore?
No matter what, I should say something about something—anything!—because I’m a writer and haven’t written anything of consequence [not totally true]…
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