It’s hard to write about writing when the world is falling to pieces.
There’s a pandemic. There’s a war. We’ve even been visited here by a third Horseman,
Pestilence, who gifted us with a grotesque infestation of spongy moth caterpillars that dangle from trees and leave welts on the skin of the unsuspecting.
We’ve lost so much:
Time
Money
Trust
Family, friends, loved ones.
But writing has been an escape for me, as I’m sure it is for a lot of writers. And I’ve kept on doing it, because — well, 
what else can one do?
My book Goblin Market will be published in August. I’ve seen an ARC, and the cover is beautiful. There’s interior art, which I love. It’s all ve
ry Polish, because my version of the story takes place in a fantastical version of Poland — for no real reason except that I visited there and was fascinated by it, and that it has storks, which are fabulous, and that it has a long history of goblin stories.
Wild Bird, my novel about the bubonic plague, is also moving right along. Another gorgeous cover, more lovely interior art, even a map. I do love a good map.
And Daughter of the White Rose will be published in paperback in August!
So life goes on, regardless. I hope you are well. But if it’s all too much, then another reality — an invented reality — might help. Open a book. Take yourself out of the here and now. Exist somewhere, sometime different for a while.
You deserve it.
