My Facebook status on Saturday read, “Goodbye Spanx, hello pjs…I’m headed home!”
Today I’m still floating on the memories of the last few weeks while getting back to life in Nova Scotia. There will be more readings in the next couple of months, but they’re spread out here and there, tucked between an ever-growing list of household chores and some much needed time with my family. I’m so grateful for everyone who crossed my path during my book tour — for those in the publishing industry who took such wonderful care of me; for the amazing media folk who took an interest in my story and what I had to say; and, most especially, for the many, lovely readers who greeted me and my words with open hearts and minds.
My house is just a short distance from the shore, and most days I take my energetic goof of a Labrador retriever, Ponyo, down to the water’s edge for a long, happy run. No matter the weather, she jumps into the Bay with abandon, her ears flying, her tail acting as a rudder. She splashes and bounds with the joy of being exactly where she wants to be.
On my best days, that’s what writing feels like — a joyous act of instinct that is purposeful and wild all at once. Each time I sit at my desk, pen in hand, I make a little wish. I pray that by the time life calls on me to put my pen down, I’ll have made at least a start at something new. It would be easy to make excuses not to write, to never even start, but my husband has insisted (on more than one occasion) that I’m far easier to live with when I take the time to write than when I don’t. I guess I’m not unlike dear Ponyo, who doesn’t know what to do with herself when she hasn’t had the chance to run.
Time to grab a pen and let the next story loose on the page.