This daydream buoyed me when the writing was hard, when the book was on submission, and during especially hard rewrites. I’d stand on a stage, or in a bookstore, and hold up my book and thank people into a microphone and then we’d eat cake and clink glasses, and dance. It involved plane-shaped cookies, and cake and a toast, and a fabulous flight suit and pair of heels. Long before I’d even signed a publishing contract for Letters to Amelia, I had a fantasy I’d return to again and again when I couldn’t sleep: I’d imagine the book’s launch party. And so, I celebrate all the small wins-finishing first drafts, and getting a new agent, and sending out pitches, and receiving glowing blurbs, generous press, all the things! Writing novels (for me) takes SO LONG and if I only celebrated a published book, there’d be years and years between cakes. I make cakes to commemorate just about everything, and always have a spare bottle of prosecco at the ready.Īnd I celebrate things in my writing life too. In the early days of the pandemic, my kids and I even celebrated every Raptors’ birthday with cake and balloons and streamers (though that was perhaps more about my desperate need to escape the deep panic and all-consuming fear than celebrating Pascal Siakam turning 26). I celebrate big things and small things, all the things, really-kids getting their final molars, the anniversary of my fella and I meeting, the first day of summer (and fall and winter and spring), the day before school, the last day of day camp, the first day of snow.
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