I always give myself a nice long writing break after a book comes out. It's relaxing. So much so that when I start thinking about starting the next book, it makes me feel a bit stressed. Like, am I ready for that? Do I want to do that? Do I really want to do that? And so I stall. Until I can talk myself into putting my big girl writer pants back on and getting on with it.

I have this thing I do, where if I buy something in bulk, I try and calculate the amount of time it will take before I need to buy it again. Then I picture what life might be like at that time; what might have happened in my life by then. And please understand that when I say I picture it, I really do. I spend moments of time waxing pensive over all the different possibilities, the different versions of life that may have played out.

There's something about having your book(s) in the library that makes an author feel legitimate. I confess that due to my status an unknown to the majority of the literary world, most libraries probably do not carry my books. Which makes it extra special when they do. Call numbers. Shelf space. Holds. Simply having your name in the library catalog as a searchable author is delight enough.

This is really a public service announcement for all cat owners, because this cat cave was the official hit of Christmas. But this is also just because it's worth mentioning that when you have a cat, the gifts you receive tend to take on a common theme. It's not a problem, exactly. There's no reason why my house shouldn't be full of cat-covered or cat-related items...and yet, should it?

Aftermath is probably the wrong word, but it's always interesting as an author to go through the first couple of months after a book launch. Of course, my circle of readers and fans is quite small, so take anything I say with a grain of reality salt, but it's nice to hear tidbits of feedback as they come in from readers.

I'm grateful for this pie, which I made, which almost never happens. And I'm grateful for all the delicious food I consumed this week, for my little house, my cat, my health, my job, my friends, the people who buy my books. In thinking about all of this, about how grateful I am for circumstances that, while not perfect, are certainly fortunate, my thoughts always gravitate toward my family.

Last weekend's book signing at King's English Bookshop was significant for a few reasons. First, Utah is cold, so the weekend was memorable in and of itself and left me (and my coat) wondering how we ever used to handle cold weather on the regular.

I suppose the only negative thing about having a book signing at Warwick's is that you don't get to spend the time you're there perusing the store. And believe me, once you've been to Warwick's, you'll for sure want to peruse the store. Every corner of it. Yet I was otherwise engaged on Sunday afternoon, signing copies of my new book, and for that I couldn't have been happier.

At long last, my new book is officially out! I've said this before, that it's strange to think that this thing that has taken years of effort and preparation can be read in a matter of a few hours. But I suppose that's the point, and I hope for anyone who reads it that those few hours provide opportunity for you to look back on your own life adventures, be it moving to a big city, changing career paths, or going after that long-held dream.

My new book launch is next month, and after all the years of work that go into writing a book, it's hard to believe it's so close now. It's also hard to believe, and sometimes a bit frustrating, that this thing that took multiple years of effort can be read in a matter of hours. It's sort of like why I hate cooking. All that time and effort for something that is eaten in a matter of minutes. But that's the way of it. The goal, in fact. To provide a few hours of entertainment, escape, retability for my readers.

While in New York City last week, I posted on social media about the world feeling heavy right now, about the Mrs. Maisel pop-up exhibit at the Paley Center for Media reminding me how refreshing it is to laugh. In response to this, I had a friend ask me if everything was OK, as if perhaps I had hinted at some sort of life meltdown or tragedy by posting such a thing. But I'd been referring to the world in general as being heavy. Headlines, almost all of them, seem too much to bear on most days. And it can't be ignored. So what are any of us to do to feel happy?

I'll say this about Star Wars Land: you certainly feel while there as if you have left Disneyland and are somewhere, dare I say it, far, far away. Which is exactly the point. No churro carts, no frozen lemonade stands, no parades, no constant stream of upbeat ditties blaring through speakers.

I don't recommend books very often. Partly because writing books of my own cuts into my reading time, but mostly because rarely is one so remarkable that I feel the need to take to the streets to recommend it.

I considered taking the printed versions of interior layout options for my new book elsewhere before spreading them out and making desicions. My cat always makes a mess of it, assuming the freshly stacked piles of paper have been put there for her to run around on, which she does, making it impossible for me to make any progress. The same thing happens when I make the bed, by the way. But the thought occurred to me that it's tradition, really, the book's christening by cat footprints, and so I couldn't quite bring myself to do it without her.

I was prepared for chocolate and cheese, for beautiful scenery and a few rainy days. But what I was not prepared for on my first trip to Switzerland was the Alps. What must have been the expression on my face when I caught my first glimpse of them, all majestic and jagged and snow-capped?

So, I chaperoned the prom last night, and I was struck by two things. First of all, this prom was like nothing else I'd ever seen or even imagined. It's not so much that it made me remember once more what a simple, shall we say not financially fortunate district I grew up in.

Paris was the first place I ever went outside of North America. It had taken me entirely too long to work up the nerve, mostly battling what seemed like they'd be annoying inconveniences like jet lag and foreign languages. Of course, being there turned out to be the very opposite of annoying, and I was left wondering why I'd spent my whole life stalling; wondering what could possibly be better than actually being somewhere you've always wanted to be.

It’s a strange thing, getting your manuscript back from the editor. On one hand, she’s paid to help you make it better. On the other hand, she gone done marked up this precious thing you’ve spent years working on. And you’d really rather she just find it perfect as is. I realize this latter scenario isn’t realistic. And if she’d told me it was perfect, she probably wouldn’t be a very good editor. But this does mean that I’ll be spending the weekend sifting through a sea of red marks, trying to sort out how to now make the book better based on her edits, feedback, and suggestions.