I needed the summer.

I needed the summer to think. I needed the summer to recharge. I needed the summer to grieve. With all that happened this summer, I needed that time to be with my friends and family. To appreciate life.

This was also the worst spring/summer to decide to read "The Warmth of Other Suns." There are so many parallels between those stories that happened nearly a century ago and now, that it's extremely scary. It gives me pause. Needless to say, I'm not finished with it, but hey, at least I'm to the section where I exist #irl.

Now that my husband and I are moved and settled in our lives as DC transplants, perhaps I'll pick it back up. I'm also reading "A Failure of Nerve" for work, and I'm going to pick up Mindy Kaling's "Why Not Me" as well as Grace Jones' autobiography at the end of the month.

I'm also going to start writing again. I mean really commit to it this time. Writing, to me, is like that guy you know you should be with, but choose to ignore for something less complicated, less cathartic. That guy who knows you on a level where it's uncomfortable. You feel vulnerable. At the same time, whenever you're with that guy (much like writing), the stars align and everything seems right in the world. I'm ready to become writing's "missus."

I am a writer. There, I said it. Now, the public has to pay.

Enjoy.