Central California treated me very sweetly these last few days. I found myself very hungry for seclusion, not just for myself, but to finish this manuscript I started many years ago. It’s a newer, crisper edition to the very book of fiction I ever wrote when I was 16. It felt wrong and misplaced to attempt to give my heart fully to new tales of fiction when this old tale still lingered very deeply in my spirit. The knowledge of knowing when it’s time for something to be finished, comes very suddenly, and it’s something that just must be followed, so I did. It took a little less than 48 hours to wrap up the final chapters, with around 11,000 words that needed to be cranked out, while some just needed a firm polish. Naturally, I also wrote my two main characters a poem, because they are very much the roots of who I didn’t know I was, until I started to find her many years ago. I’m immensely grateful for these characters, and their complex, heartbreaking stories; I’m full with love for this little farmhouse where I got to wrap this manuscript up with a tattered bow. It was truly a dream, to spend hours tucked away in a vintage chair in this old pink room, taking breaks to drive into town, where I got to take this beautiful windy road down, every time there and back, or to venture out into the citrus groves where Riley the cat always greeted me with the sweetest cuddles. This time was perfectly serene, simple, and dreamy—a careful dedication that just needed a little extra space to finally blossom and fade. And before you ask, don’t expect to see this manuscript anywhere, anytime soon. Frankly, maybe never, but stranger things have happened. For now, it’s on to the next chapter one ... 📖🍂🍊