What I want most but can’t admit is... a day without responsibility. No saving kingdoms, no prophecies, no ancient curses with suspiciously flexible deadlines. Just me, a cup of tea that stays hot, and trousers with an elastic waistband. But no, apparently I’m the chosen one. Chosen for what, I ask? Unpaid overtime and recurring nightmares, that’s what. The universe never picks the well-rested, have you noticed? Always someone with poor posture and emotional baggage. And yet, curse my heroic tendencies I’d probably miss it. The chaos, the peril, the smell of destiny in the morning. Like burnt toast, but existential. Freedom sounds wonderful until you realize you wouldn’t know what to do with it. I’d end up alphabetizing my regrets or reorganizing my guilt shelf. So yes. What I want most is rest. What I’ll get is adventure. And possibly mild scarring. Reflection: Turns out my character’s fear of being ordinary is very much my own. There’s comfort in the chaos, in feeling important to the plot, even if the plot is utterly ridiculous. Like most of us, they crave freedom but panic when handed a blank calendar.

@Dani Rosenblad James Thank you, @Dani Rosenblad James ! Truly appreciate your kind words and the nudge toward the inner work. I’m doing my best to show up for that part too.

The glass trembled. Just once at first. Then again. Outside, the wind howled low and mean, like it knew something I didn’t. I slammed the window shut. It didn’t matter. The storm was already here. “You never listen,” she said. Her voice was soft, but sharp enough to slice through the hum of rain. I turned. She stood there, arms folded, hair wild from the open door, eyes full of lightning. I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Nothing came out but static. Then the words...hers, mine, both crashed together like thunder over tin roofs. Fast. Hard. Too much. We shouted over each other, over the rain, over the heartbeat that had become a drum in my throat. Then silence. A breath. Two. The storm moved on. But the air inside—it still crackled.

Well, this week took a turn. What started as a noble quest to simply rebuild my office/ writing lair. I was to paint a wall, maybe wrangle some cables.. this quickly descended into full-blown architectural mayhem. I was this close to laying down the new floor when I discovered that termites had been hosting some kind of subterranean rave in the walls. Naturally, one thing led to another, and now that wall is no longer a wall, but a window. A glorious, unplanned, hopefully-energy-efficient window. All of this just in time to not freeze solid come winter. The floor still awaits its ceremonial epoxy ritual, and I have yet to unravel the ancient mystery of “how to heat a room effectively,” but the future is bright—and so will be my bookshelves, which currently live in majestic disarray across the garage like exiled nobles waiting to return to court. Truly, an epic saga in drywall and dust.

@Dani Rosenblad James It’s like your brain went through a cosmic reboot and came back with fewer rules and a better sense of humor. Honestly, sounds like you’ve upgraded to wizard-level freedom; unpredictable, a bit mad, but absolutely magical!

There are many reasons people get divorced. Infidelity, incompatibility, irreconcilable differences, or the great modern equalizer: assembling IKEA furniture together. For Greg and Shelley Blunt, it was none of these. They divorced because one day, over a breakfast of burnt toast and existential dread, they simultaneously realized they couldn’t stand the way the other person chewed. But here’s the thing: divorces are expensive. Not just the paperwork, the lawyers, the splitting of everything down to who owns the cat's affection (answer: the neighbour). No, the real expense was housing. And, thanks to the local economy, property values had ascended to the kind of heights usually reserved for angels, orbital satellites, and the smug sense of self-worth possessed by wine sommeliers. So they stayed. In the same house. Together. Not emotionally. Not spiritually. Just... geographically. Like two tectonic plates locked in mutual loathing but legally forbidden from drifting apart. “It’s a bit cramped in the kitchen,” Shelley muttered one morning, watching Greg desecrate scrambled eggs with what she could only assume was the ghost of turmeric. Greg didn’t look up. “You’re in my half of the kitchen. The good half.” “The good half has the fridge.” “That’s because I bought it.” “With my credit.” “It’s my electricity powering it!” Thus began what scholars (or at least the man who lived in their shed and ran a conspiracy podcast) would later call The Great Kitchen Cold War. At first, it was simple division. A line of masking tape across the linoleum. Her toaster, his blender. Her spatula, his ladle. One kettle each. (Because no sane person shares a kettle with an ex.) But war, like soufflé, has a way of expanding. Arguments turned into insults. Insults turned into passive-aggressive post-it notes. Passive-aggressive post-it notes turned into very active-aggressive chili cook-offs. And then—somewhere between a particularly tense risotto standoff and a moment where Shelley deliberately sabotaged Greg’s lemon tart by switching out the sugar with salt—something happened.

I rattled like a kettle that had decided, quite against the instructions on the box, to boil soup instead of water. My eyes twitched with the sort of manic energy that wallpaper has just before it peels itself off in protest. I paced the room, muttering ancient curses in three different alphabets, and considered—very seriously—writing a strongly worded note to gravity for its constant interference. The floorboards winced under my stomping, the curtains fled sideways, and somewhere in the house a spoon bent itself in sympathy.

@Dani Rosenblad James 🤣Aggravated? Frustrated? My dear Dani, this was no mere irritation. This was frustration with brass bands, fireworks, and a marching troupe of ants in my shoes. This was the sort of mood that makes staircases look smug and doorknobs suspiciously slippery. Aggravation wears a frown; I was conducting a full-blown opera of exasperation! 🙃 .... But, yes. Frustration! 😤