December 27, 2020


Sunset over ocean.

I've grieved this year. I know you have too. I lost a dear mentor. The program in which I taught closed down. I came close to getting a dream job--but did not. Another opportunity required weeks of fraught negotiation. My city's streets were invaded, helicopters a constant presence overhead. Tyrannical subversion of the law has felt like a very real possibility at every turn. A pandemic has attacked friends, family, whole communities, killed thousands, and shut down local institutions that long anchored my understanding of what it meant to live as a writer in DC. Last night, as I opened my laptop and first sat down to write this blog post, brought the news that musician Tony Rice, who shaped my understanding of bluegrass, passed away on Christmas day. 

Large, bare trees on a beach shore. Human figure in distant background.

I'm grateful to all the writer-friends who have stayed active on social media, who have given us dialogue beyond the latest doom-scrolling (a word I did not need before 2020); I simply found it difficult to be one of them. If you're seeing this it means you didn't give up on the possibility of my posting here. I'm grateful for that, too.

Sea shore with tidal pools and a bright patch of green algae.

There were beautiful moments of this year. Friends had babies. My sister got married. We brought home Sal the Wonder Cat. My husband and I worked through sharing a small space day in, day out. Made to Explode got its coverI can't be glib about silver linings, but I can recognize the planting of seeds that will bloom. I'll see you in 2021.

Close-up of bed in a beach-themed room, cat with black and white head hiding behind pillows.