It’s my favourite time of year, early fall when the mornings are cool but it’s still ice cream and hammock reading in the afternoon. Campfires while wearing socks and hoodies at night are better now than when it was hot and we were a feast for mosquitoes. I love the yellow and orange of my neighbours gardens, a lowering of expectations. Things are feeling gentle and more forgiving than before.
Yesterday we went out for ice cream, a book pick-up, and a drive to a Waterloo Brewery to buy cider and radlers to celebrate. I’ve know for months that I was having a non-fiction story published in the Quarantine Review, a piece I wrote based on a blog post months ago about my Nana. It’s a piece I’m really proud of, especially since it came out of such a dark time. But what meant the most yesterday was seeing myself named as a writer without even knowing it was happening, the twitter post was a complete surprise and for a few hours I forgot everything; the despair of RBG’s passing, the climbing COVID numbers, how utterly exhausted I am of delivering hard news to my children. For a few hours the sun was perfect, the beer was cold and my new book, Emily Urquart’s The Age of Creativity awaited my full heart and attention.