💛 I’m celebrating!

You start reading and find yourself on the beach. You're not wearing shoes, and the sand feels soft and warm between your toes. The ocean waves gently hit the shore and the sun shines brightly overhead, while a soft breeze caresses your skin.

You spot me sitting cross-legged on the beach, staring out at the ocean. I’m in an oversized fuzzy sweater that reaches my knees, sweatpants, and socks.

"What are you doing out here dressed like that, Mia?" you call out, rushing toward me.

I don’t blame you for worrying. If I spotted someone on the beach in this many layers, I’d be worrying about them, too. But I’m too excited to see you to care about outfits.

I jump to my feet, rush toward you, and pull you into an enormous hug. "I’m celebrating! Scratch that, we’re celebrating…"

"Let me guess. You finally convinced Not a Vampire to go out in daylight?" you tease.

"He’s Not a vampire," I whine.

You ignore it. "Aren’t you overheating?"

"No, I’m freezing my butt off," I cry. "And my toes. And nose. And fingers." I give a dramatic shiver. "I haven’t felt warm in days. No matter how many layers I wear, some part of me is always cold."

"How cold is it where you are, exactly?" you ask.

"Minus 15. Celsius," I quickly add. "I’m in Toronto Canada, not Fairbanks Alaska. I love reading romance novels set in Fairbanks." I let out a dreamy sigh. "But I would never want to live there. I hate the cold."

I pull up a temperature converter on my phone. "It’s 5 Fahrenheit. For us, that’s one of the coldest days of the year. And I mean the past twelve months, not the last few weeks."

"No wonder you brought us here," you say, taking in the beach.

"Right?" I grin. "Happy new year, by the way! Can I still say happy new year? Or is it too late in the year?"

"So…" you say, deciding to probe into why we’re celebrating. You could just ask, but you want to know what I’ve been up to since our last visit—the good and the bad. "How’s your year been so far?"

"Loaded question," I tell you, sitting down on the soft sand. "Come, sit with me," I say, patting the spot next to me.

You join me and stare out at the ocean while I think about my response. A lot has happened in the last few weeks, but in some ways, also very little. "Mini Mortal had a stomach bug last week, and she took it pretty hard. Poor baby was begging to go swimming. Between the vomiting and fever, obviously it wasn’t an option, but try explaining that to a four-year-old."

"How’s she feeling now?" you ask sympathetically.

"Much better. And come to think of it, so am I."

The sun shines brightly overhead, and I no longer feel the chill all the way to my bones. Which means, goodbye sweater, hello shorts and t-shirt. Kind of wish I’d shaved my legs—but I know you won’t judge.

You do wonder if I’m a werewolf, but decide not to ask. I already don’t take accusations about my husband being a vampire well—because he isn’t one, dammit!—and some people can be really self-conscious about their body hair.

"So how have you been?" you ask instead. "I love hearing about Mini Mortal, but I want to hear about you, Mia."

"Well…" I say, wondering if all parents answer that question by talking about their child instead of themselves—or if it’s just me. "I went back to my day job after the holidays." I almost start gushing about how I brought Mini Mortal in for a tour of the office, and she named the stapler—because we’re old school and still use a stapler—but I’m supposed to be talking about me. "It was kind of hard going back at first," I admit. "But I've always loved routines, and it's nice to have things settle down after the holidays. Don’t get me wrong, I look forward to them every year, but they always burn me out. Even if we don't do anything huge, I'm exhausted. Are you like that too?"

You answer honestly and then ask. "Have you recovered?"

I nod. "Mostly. And I write every morning now," I tell you proudly. "I get up at 5am. Have been since the time change in November. I usually get to my desk by 5:20, and I write until 6, give or take."

Your eyes widen. "Every day?"

I nod. "I'm so scared that if I miss a day, I'll never get back into the routine. It's an ADHD thing. I'm actually reading How to ADHD by Jessica McCabe right now, and it turns out that I'm not the only one. She mentions that she’s done things 'obsessively' without letting life disrupt them—because any interruption could make the whole thing fall apart." I shrug. "So yeah, every day. No breaks."

You examine me for several seconds. "You don't look tired," you say suspiciously. "Then again, you can probably just snap your fingers and remove dark circles the way you change outfits."

I shrug. "I could. But I'm actually not tired. I went to bed at 9 last night so I got more than enough sleep. Sometimes I stay up late, ten or ten thirty, and then I'm pretty tired. And when Mini Mortal was sick, she kept us up for a good chunk of the night, so that was rough."

"But you still got up at 5am?"

I nod. "Not a Vampire distracted her long enough for me to nap after I finished writing, and it really helped."

You mentally calculate how many days it's been since the time change in November. Or maybe you cheat and take out your phone. I did…. Then you grin. "85 days! You've been getting up at 5am and writing for 85 days. That’s what we’re celebrating, isn’t it?"

I nod, and party hats appear on our heads. Our favorite drinks materialize in our hands. I may not be cold anymore, but I still choose a steaming cup of coffee instead of champagne. Might be a writer thing—you know how we are with caffeine.

For a split second, the sexy coffee monster of my dreams starts to materialize by the water, but then he disappears again. I’ve been doing a pretty good job of keeping him at bay.

We clink glasses and sip our drinks.

"So, how's writing?" You ask.

Ah, the question of the hour. "Pretty good. I'm editing Minnie 2, and I'm on chapter 8. Of 31. Well, 32. I realized I need to write an extra chapter from one of the guys' points of view."

"When do you think you'll be done?"

"Something in February, I hope. I write every morning, but I don't always work on Minnie. Like this week, I’ve been planning out our adventure. And sometimes, my muse wants me to jump to an old half-finished book or write a short story. She's really hard to wrangle sometimes. But if I rein her in too much, she stops working entirely. It’s easier to send her off on side quests to keep her happy."

"Does she have a name?" you ask, since I'm talking about my muse like she's a person.

"Musie?" I suggest. "Nope, don't like it. Aim? It's Mia backwards, and it’s a definite no." I snort and shake my head. "Yellow?" It's my favorite color, and that's how I picture her—a glowing, yellow orb floating nearby.

I pause, briefly wondering if other authors have personified muses, too. What do they look like? Do they talk? Or is there something wrong with me?

I decide this is as good a time as any to change the subject and turn to you. "So, how has your year been so far?" I ask, hoping you’ll stick around for a little while longer and tell me how you’ve been.