I am the very worst kind of woman, the type of woman I’ve worked hard not to be. A woman who makes promises. But for all my good intentions.
I was going to write about pencil skirts and bow-tie blouses and pleated dirndl skirts.
Instead, I wrote my novel. I really wrote it.
To the point that something I secretly thought I would never ever finish, I can now see the end of. Look, just down there, maybe 60 pages away. There it is, the finish line.
I have also been listening to Sufjan Stevens. He’s as bonkers as all giddy-up, but hells bells can the man write a song. ‘Michigan’, in particular. ‘Seven Swans’ is just sublime, and rarely gets packed away. But ‘Michigan’ is one of those lovely surprises, one I always knew was there, but had never paid any real attention to. And it’s funny, how when you finally see something that was always there, and it winds it’s way, you kick yourself for not seeing it sooner. Because it’s perfect. Like falling in love with a friend, I suppose.
“There is a design, to what I did and said.”