2015 has been a weird year -- but then again, aren't they all, really? My health was indifferent at best, as usual, and instead of binge watching Netflix in my lethargy (or "eye-guzzling," as Malcolm McDowell's slightly sinister voice rasps on that television ad) I spent the year reading an enormous number of (mostly trashy) novels -- at last count, 196 of them. Seriously.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that for me, 2015 was the year of the novel -- in more ways than one.
I also finished writing my first novel last month -- well, I finished a first draft, anyway. That's why I haven't been around here, actually. Too busy, you know, writing a novel. Not that I'm bragging (of course I'm bragging, don't be ridiculous), but it was sort of time consuming. I never thought I'd really do it, you know. I've been threatening to write a novel since I was 10 years old, but it was always a bit of an empty threat -- only slightly better than holding my breath until I got my way. It was the thing I murmured about at parties, to draw attention away from the fact that I was a failed actress and a pink collar worker with only a G.E.D. to my name. "Oh, I'm working on a novel," I would say, and truthfully I often was. I've been working on various novels forever -- I started my first when I was 13. But I've never finished one before -- never got very far at all, really.
So it was as much a shock to my dilettante heart as it was to everyone else that I finally finished what I started. I wrote a novel, you guys. I really did it. It was as much a happy ending as the one I'd penned for the hapless characters on my glowing computer screen.
Happy New Year, you guys. Here's to a mighty and exuberant 2016.