I may have begun writing my next book. You may not understand the gravity of this sentence, but for someone who has spent almost seven years searching for the right form that could encompass what I wanted my sequel to be, this moment feels significant. I arrived upon it purely by chance. Let’s rephrase that, I was compelled by a particular circumstance—a pressing deadline that I wanted to honour. I had to write a personal essay, and I had decided on a title, and when I struggled to find the time to sit in front of my laptop and compose it, I began writing, instead, by hand, on flashcards. I refilled my ink pen after what felt like centuries. It was so dry from the inside I had to wash it with warm water and let the ink crumbs run out. And then I decided to write whenever I was able to find a moment. I would avoid re-writing, and I would not look up anything online.

It is liberating and empowering to embark on this new possible book. It allows me to indulge in motherhood more enthusiastically because I do not perceive it as keeping me away from writing. At the same time, because I have been working so hard on myself, on smoothing out my roughest edges, not giving in to my tendencies to people-please and actively engaging in acts of kindness towards my being, I am enjoying the suspense-filled nature of the process. I love thinking about what I will write when I get the opportunity, but when I have the ink pen in my hand, my fingers go rogue, and I play along, and I’m having fun, dear reader. I’m delighting in playing with my thoughts.