SOBER

Back in February, I said I wouldn’t start March like that. Not April. Not May. I did good in June. Won’t start July, August, September, October, November, like that.

There’s something about December that I want to be exactly like June. The beginning of June. There was peace. There was quiet. There was a party. An artist. New friends. Bookstore dates helping college students with their resumes. The first argument with a best friend. A make up. And a make up that should not have happened. There’s something about the entire month of December that I want exactly like the beginning of June. Before the passive aggressive birthday wish. Before the passive aggressive email. It’s December, and it feels like the end. The end of something insane and the beginning of something spectacular. When I was 10 or 11, I told my aunt and uncle in California that I’d move to New York or California to write. It never occurred to me I put that out in the Universe – and it happened. And so I told my most faithful readers one year ago, that I’m writing a book. It was a dream. Now, I can’t stop sending pieces to my editor (Hi, EDITOR!).

What was your life like at 20?

That’s not rhetorical.
Also, I am on Twitter.
twitter.com/holidayelle
I promise not be antisocial.

“One thing burst into another….I wrote the book very quickly; and when it was written, I ceased to hear her voice; I do not see her. I expressed some very long felt and deeply felt emotion. and in expressing it, I explained it and laid it to rest.” – Virginia Woolf on writing To The Lighthouse