Hello there, fellow MayVaneDay fans! Can you believe it? In just twelve days, I will have been parading around on this website for a year. And what a year it’s been… If I told the ninth grader who created this blog that the silly stories that she was currently working on would eventually give way to her first official book series (because the powers that be know that she’s tried before and horrifically failed) she’d have flipped and worried that she was wasting her time. But everybody needs to start somewhere, and some start humbler than others. And if taking a book series that you had a love/hate relationship with in seventh grade and making a crappy web series about it (which ran from late seventh grade to the day before I created this one on a vacation late ninth grade) doesn’t count as a humble beginning, then I don’t know what is.

I know that at least one follower must be thinking to themselves right now that they miss when I came out with new prose every day and we were a churning fiction machine. Unfortunately, we won’t be able to return to that bliss and sweat in a long time- The Samhain Files, which I drafted in December and early January, is currently only in the tenth chapter of the first novelized rough draft. It doesn’t help that I did such a halfhearted and crappy job the first time around that I practically have to write a whole new book all over again. My bones ache for the day when I can send it off to a group of approximately fifteen people (who I am still piecing together) for peer review and can begin outlining The White Line Fever. And that’s going to be a dang long book to draft and revise… My point is, it’s going to be a damn long time before I begin any kind of serious work on The Lilyborn. (And yes, that’s the title of the third book, and there’s a reason for that which I will not reveal here.) And even then, there’s the light outlining… and the gathering of the ideas and visuals… and the actual act of writing…

This week, I’m going to take it easy and continue to write poems (with the exception of today) since this weekend, I’m going to be at a Girl Scout camp called Prairie Flower with my friend, both of our moms, and my friend’s little sister and her respective friend. Thursday’s going to be a clusterfun (you all know the word that I want to put here, but I’d rather not trip any profanity filters at the moment) with shopping for all of the food that will be consumed by the six of us and also having to pack my bags that same day. Because, you know, one small little drawstring bag isn’t sufficient for Prairie Flower. May the proverbial god bless you if you can somehow fit two days of change, a bottle of shampoo to smuggle in, soap, a water bottle, and an umbrella (because it ALWAYS RAINS at least part of a day) along with extra clothes, a hat, sunscreen, snacks… you get the picture. For the low price of your current sanity, you can subject yourself to Stress Lite™ and pack your bags after Thursday so that, immediately after coming home in Friday, you can get into another vehicle and take advantage of the early-bird vehicle access into the camp. It’s practically a death march walking a cart back and forth between your vehicle and your campsite when you only have one single plastic heavy-day cart and you need to shove a whole troop’s worth of sleeping bags and food coolers inside.

I know that I can’t possibly say this enough, but thank you readers for everything that you’ve given me. I know that sixth-grade me wouldn’t have completely flipped her lid at the entire class in front of the DARE teacher if she had known that it takes time in order to write a successful and fulfilling novel. Everybody in the class was jumping on the writing bandwagon, but I can’t name a single one of them except for me who actually persevered with it all the way to today. Thank you for believing in me- through this site, I’ve met so many people, touched so many lives, and been touched and inspired by hundreds more. May this next year in writing bring even more writing, more friends, and more opportunities for everybody.


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