April, that slippery trickster, played peekaboo with my sanity and my word count, yet here I am, wrestling it all into a monthly wrap-up blog post.

The dungeon of delights I toss stuff into (i.e. a crummy little computer file called “Cool Stuff!”) is ever-burgeoning. 

I also have a file called “Can You Believe This Shit?”, a cavernous pit of my more epic fails — those are usually what I serve up here once I’ve pulled my face out of the mud of life, rising like a phoenix from the ashes of my own clumsiness. But let’s sidestep the slapstick for a moment, shall we? 

Here are some splashes of the marvelous from April 2024 :

• I got to hear author Julie Otsuka (of When the Emperor Was Divine, among other gems) speak at an event. She talked about the musicality of her prose as a guiding force. It was revelatory to me as a writer, who gets so worried about writing well that sometimes I forget about writing with beauty and whimsy and lyricism. The Swimmers is next on my list to read.
• How lovely is this piece about the creative seasons by Austin Kleon? (peek here).
• Ever feel like you’re in someone else’s movie (picture of definition of “idiot plot”) and it was a movie written by a coked-up background muppet whose Mahna Mahna has slipped off its cracker? I mean…

• I’d absolutely demolish Le Crookie, a sinfully delightful pastry mishmash taking Paris by storm. (Feast your eyes on this madness).
• It was my daughter’s birthday on April 8. We told her we moved heaven and earth for her, and that’s cool and all, but don’t expect that every year, kid.
• Having kids has completely reshaped my understanding of time, especially when there are milestones. It’s like living in a real-world example of relativity: they’re at once newborns, teens, young adults, and everything in between, while I just steadily decay.
• And then the routine chaos: proms, concerts, sporting our way through life. The husband and I morphed into glorified chauffeurs, hauling our offspring hither and yon.
• Our sports pilgrimage included track meets in Arctic temps and baseball games called by some marvelously colorful umpires — can you say, “turkey, chicken, duck”? Because one umpire sure could every time there was a foul. Games and meets are long, is what I’m saying, and I have a lot of time to enjoy things like that. Except for the Arctic temps.
• My bookshelves are screaming under the weight of an ever-expanding TBR pile. So many books, so little time (and this doesn’t help).
• While I’m shedding no tears — except for the workers affected — over Oberweiss flirting with bankruptcy, I’m totally drooling over Jeni’s ice cream (I mean, have you tried it?). If I indulged as often as I’d like, I’d be experiencing regular cardiac events while living in a cardboard box — but what a sweet, sweet home it would be.
• Discovered joy with my husband at a new sushi joint that actually knows what spicy means. It’s our new “our place,” because let’s face it, my usual place is inside my own head. It’s cluttered in there and there’s no sushi.
• Kudos to The Crown for reminding me why posture matters (thanks, scoliosis). Also I AM WELL AWARE OF HOW BEHIND I AM. I DO NOT OFTEN HEAR THE ZEITGEIST OVER THE SOUNDS OF LOCAL LEAF BLOWERS.
• Hat tip to Redditor thewelfarestate who, in a thread about not (over)using adverbs in writing, said, “Adverbs killed my father… meanly.” 
• This is also good writing advice:

• Dove into k.d. lang’s “Constant Craving” and “Hallelujah” on repeat because her voice cools the burn of a world that can get too loud and cruel.
• And not to bury this or anything, but this happened a couple of days ago. More next month.

• Here’s a poetic butter rum lifesaver to enjoy until my next update (peace out with this poem).

(and also, I love this flavor, in case you’re wondering. And this one. And this one. And this one. Also this. And I cannot forget this.)

May we all come into the peace of wild things.

And may we wild things bring peace to you.