Popped my query letter cherry this week. Highest word count email I've ever sent, a research rabbit hole I should've done first, and a math problem — five years to write a book, five minutes to decide whether to send it — that isn't mathing over here.

Got evicted from my own office. Over a Darth Vader joke, no less. Also locked the pitch paragraph, finally learned what the hell a query even is, and found out the odds are basically a coin flip with extra steps and a spreadsheet.

We found some clarity this week. In the positioning doc, and in the dichotomous nature of me. The healthcare-serious side and the snapback-tatted-cussing side were never actually fighting. This week they signed a peace treaty over a salad, a donut, and a beer — same meal, don't @ me.

The manuscript is done. The over-editing is done. Now comes the part nobody talks about — positioning, querying agents, and figuring out what to call your book when you’re not Oprah.

Three reheats of the same sad coffee, a teenager who needs the summer itinerary laminated, and a brain that won't stop manufacturing emergencies out of nothing. And somehow, one more chapter still got written anyway.

The most interesting Uber driver alive. A comment section that became an Aerosmith debate. And the gap between a story that lands and one that gets completely lost on the way out.

51,869 words, a minor spiral, and ticket to Oahu. The book is almost done. Publishing, however, operates like it’s 1987 and I have thoughts about that.

Tooth extraction, a cooler of actual poop, Botox before Hawaii, and three more manuscript chapters. Completely normal. Right?

The chapter is called "Golden Handcuffs (But Not in a Dirty Way)" and yes, I am funnier in writing than in person. Also a crown fell out on a Montana highway. Come for the chaos, stay for the sweet honey.

Road tripping to Montana living our best tournament life. This week was taxes, appointments, retainer drama, and grief I've been carrying quietly. The pitch and business side of taking this book somewhere? That's my love language.

Apparently I tested high(ish) for ADHD in 7 of 10 categories. The book is coming along okay, but the week was chaos. Progress is still progress. Full stop.

When you've been inside your own work too long, it starts to look broken — even when it isn't. A real-talk look at the over-edit spiral, writing exhaustion, and knowing when to put the pen down.

Birthday week, Spring Break chaos, a loaded baked potato that deserves its own paragraph, and one more chapter locked. The book is going traditional — because the dream is a stranger finding it in Target, not on a hard drive.

The plan was Virgin River and sushi. The reality was rage-cleaning and a spider I needed my husband to kill from two time zones away. Turns out alone time isn’t what we think it is — and neither is editing a book.