💛Hi! I'm so glad you're here!

The moment you start reading, everything around you fades. You blink several times and find yourself in a room filled with cardboard boxes. Some are taped shut, while others are open, revealing a random mix of items: a hand-held vacuum, notebooks, hair clips, a sock...

You count twelve boxes, split among four stacks, before you spot a desk hidden behind Box Tower. I’m sitting in my extra-wide desk chair, cross-legged, rocking back and forth gently as I type.

“Mia?” you ask in surprise.

“Hi!” I cry, jumping up from my chair. “I’m so glad you’re here!” I run toward you, nearly tipping over Box Tower and dooming us both. I wrap my arms around you in a tight hug and burst into tears.

“What’s wrong?” you start to worry, though you really shouldn’t. “Are you okay?”

“No!” I wail. “I mean yes. Maybe?” I pull back, sniffling. “Sorry, I’m fine. I just really missed you.” I smile. “I’m so glad you’re finally here. Why were you gone for so long?”

“Me?” You stare at me, flabbergasted. Or maybe just appropriately confused. “You’re the one who’s been gone. You could have brought me here any time.”

Because in theory, that’s how it works. I write to you, and you get transported here so we can hang out and catch up. But in practice...

“It’s not that easy. I wanted to write to you, I really did. I just couldn’t.”

You gasp. “Did you get kidnapped?”

I shake my head. “The only reason anyone would kidnap me would be to force me to write. Just don’t get any ideas. I have a Not a Vampire husband and a five-year-old Mini Mortal depending on me.”

You chuckle, then quickly sober up as you try to think of what could have kept me away. “Were you… in the hospital?”

“Briefly. Appendicitis. It was rough.”

I snort. “I guess the only appendix I’ll have now is the kind I add to books. What would I even put in an appendix? A recipe I never tested that might burn down the house? Deleted scenes I deleted for a reason? Proof that my husband isn’t a vampire?”

“So why couldn’t you write?” you ask, bringing us back full circle. “Does it have anything to do with all these boxes?”

“Not really.” I look around and grimace. “Sorry about these. We moved a few months ago and we’re still unpacking.”

“A few months ago?” You look at the towers of boxes skeptically.

“I know, I know, but this is a huge improvement. There used to be hundreds.”

“Hundreds? How much stuff do you own?”

“Too much.” I grimace. “My dad’s a hoarder, and I think it might be genetic. Sort of? I mean I’m not a hoarder. At least, I don’t think I am?”

You don’t rush to my defense, and I don’t blame you.

“My new year’s resolution is to minimize. I just have trouble throwing stuff away. And when I clean, sometimes I get overwhelmed and just dump everything into a doom pile.”

“Doom pile…” you repeat, looking at the box with the sock. The clean sock. I draw a line at mixing in dirty laundry.

“Doom stands for ‘Didn’t Organize, Only Moved’,” I explain. “It’s an ADHD thing. I struggle to make decisions when I clean, so everything that doesn’t belong gets set aside in a pile. Eventually it becomes a box. I plan to get to it, but out of sight, out of mind.” I glare at the sock. “All the boxes came with us, and the stuff inside them needs a home. They’re all in my office so Mini Mortal can’t get into them.” I sigh. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

You nod absently. I think you’re still processing the Doom piles. Or maybe you’re wondering if the sock means I’m finally free.

“Thing is…” I say, “I lost my ‘je ne sais quoi’.”

“Your what?”

“My spark... I wanted to see you. I really did. I just... couldn’t.”

“So like... writer’s block?” you ask. “I thought that just happened with books. Not this. This isn’t a book.”

“I don’t know if it is writer’s block. Maybe it’s a curse. Maybe an evil witch wanted to keep us apart.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Or maybe I’m just lazy.” The moment I say it I realize I’m repeating an old pattern. One I’ve been stuck in for decades now. “I’m not lazy, it’s ADHD,” I remind us both. “And burnout. Both make it hard to do things, no matter how badly I want to. And the longer I go without writing, the harder it is to start. Right now, every cell in my body is urging me to race out of here.”

I glance at the door, at you, and then back at the door.

“Please don’t run,” you say. I hope you want me to stay. But maybe you’re just worried that if I push past Box Tower, I’ll knock it over and we’ll never dig our way out.

“I’ve been gone for so long you probably forgot all about me and my books.” I say, starting to feel a little sick. “Or worse… you moved on to another author who actually sends regular emails and publishes books on a schedule.” I glance at the door. “You’re so annoyed and disappointed you’re going to pretend you need to use the bathroom, climb out the window, and leave.”

You start to deny it but I don’t listen. My heart thunders in my chest and I feel like I’m going to throw up. I need to get out of here. I need to stop writing. Hit delete. Forget this ever happened. But you’re already here. I finally brought you this far. I can’t give up now.

“I’m so sorry,” I say.

“It’s okay, Mia,” you tell me. You’re such a good reader.

“I really am sorry. I’m sorry for taking so long to write. For not trying harder to find a way to reach you. For not publishing a book in forever, or finishing all the books I said I would. And I’m sorry for not keeping our visit light and fun and turning it into this instead.” I gesture at the tears now streaming down my cheeks. “I’m so, so sorry.”

I reach my limit, grab my laptop, and race out of the room, narrowly missing Box Tower on my way out.

I feel sick and full of regret. This meeting between us was a hot mess. I should hit backspace on the entire thing. Start over. Do better. But what if I can’t? What if you never hear from me again and never find out that I disappeared out of shame?

I have to keep going so we can both move forward. But I just can’t…

So I let myself hit delete. Remove the worst of my downward spiral. Hit backspace on all the worries about you hating me. Wipe away my conclusion that it’s been too long, and I should just quit writing because no one reads my books anymore anyway.

Paragraphs of word vomit disappear, leaving you with memories of my downward spiral so vague that you wonder if you imagined them.

You stand in Box Tower Office, waiting for me to return.

Footsteps echo up the stairs and my Not a Vampire husband pops his head into the room. “I didn’t realize Mia had guests.”

Your hand drifts to your neck. You’re probably just scratching it. There’s no way you’re worried he’ll bite you since he’s NOT a vampire. And anyway, if he were to bite anyone, it would be me.

“Is Mia okay?” you ask.

He nods. “This was really hard for her. I’m proud of her for going through with it and emailing you. I really hope you’ll forgive her for disappearing and that you’ll stick around.”

“Of course I will,” you say. Maybe a part of you is worried he is a vampire, and if you don’t agree, he won’t take it well. But he’s NOT a vampire, so that can’t be it. You’re probably just being polite. Or maybe you really mean it. I hope you do!

“Mia’s working on Minnie 3 now,” he says. “But she’s too overwhelmed to edit and publish Minnie 2.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

He smiles that bright, warm smile that always sets my heart racing. “Mia would love it if you could leave her an encouraging comment or reply, just to let her know you’re here. She’ll read every single one, and I know it’ll mean the world to her, even if she doesn’t have the spoons to reply.”

You nod. “Of course.”

“She also deleted Facebook, and she’s too overwhelmed to log back in. But without it, she doesn’t know where to find ARC readers. So if you’re interested, I made a form. Then Mia got her hands on it and now it’s… well… see for yourself.”

Before you can reply, everything starts to fade, and just like that, you find yourself back in front of your screen.

But somehow, you know you’ll hear from me again. And soon. Maybe not next week, but maybe the week after, or definitely sometime next month.

And this time, you’re pretty sure I’ll make things light and fun. Or at least include fewer doom piles and more rubber duckies.