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.

There's a knee pad missing. My eyeliner is on someone else's face. The comforter is Judas. And somehow, in the middle of all of it, the book found its reader.

My hair girl has been on maternity leave since October. My book has been in progress for 1,826 days. Neglecting both at the same time means you're deep in something. Finishing both at the same time means you're finally coming up for air.

This week I hit my goal weight, lost my boobs and my a*, got a client who told me I was too safe, and my husband had a dream I looked like a hagfish. The mirror doesn't lie — and for once, I didn't hate what it had to say.

One transvaginal ultrasound, one sick Frenchie, and a manuscript that needed me to go back into the hard chapters. Welcome to the wand week.

A new client mentioned almost casually that a colleague of his worked with me once and wasn't sure she got what she paid for.

That was four years ago. When I was four months in. Just a girl with a Canva account and a whole lot of nerve.

His boss's actual feedback on my current work? I'm giving away too much. Pull it back.

Rookie me didn't know jack sht. Turns out that's not always a bad thing

I lost my voice this week. Not metaphorically. Like, actually couldn't talk. Which if you know me at all, you know this is a problem. At one point my husband—all 6'5", 300 pounds of tattooed sexy saint—looked at me and said: "I have an idea... STOP TALKING." This week I also got tattooed. Didn't add anything new. Just filled in the gaps. Funny how that's exactly what I'm doing with my manuscript.

I scrolled through four years of my life this week and didn't recognize myself. Gray pencil skirt. Red turtleneck. Not a single tattoo on my arms yet. Platinum blonde hair. And as I kept scrolling, I watched the time machine play out — different hairstyles, different colors, a very clear season of insecurity. The year of cancer. All the things. And the time machine told me something I've been forgetting: You have accomplished more than you give yourself credit for. A lot can happen in four years.

I discovered fake eyelashes, my fingers staged a revolt, and I remembered what hugs feel like. Also: I might be pitching publishers soon because apparently I'm a sales slut.

"Bro, you aren't Oprah. No one cares." That's what the voice in my head keeps saying while I'm knee-deep in Chapter 3 enrichment. This week I had my anti-Oprah moment—the one where self-doubt screams that my story isn't special enough, unique enough, or worth anyone's time. But here's what I keep coming back to: It's not about being Oprah. It's about the person who reads your words and goes "oh shit, me too." The voice that says "no one cares" is loud this week. But I'm writing anyway.

On soul-crushing exhaustion, rediscovering things again and again, and why the book I'm writing includes all the shit show moments and ugly cries. Because isn't that life?