getting small

so to speak.

This past year, I wrote two books. (Truth: my brain hurts, but that’s another post.) The first novel had a dollhouse in it. I knew this was a slippery slope: as a kid, I was obsessed with miniatures. My mom used to take me to a dollhouse museum in Sandwich, MA multiple times during our Cape Cod summers. I'd speed through the exhibits, which I knew by heart, then spend the rest of the time in the gift shop, just looking and marveling. So many tiny little things! At twelve, I saved up $150 of my own money to buy a dollhouse from Billy Arthur’s. (Extra points for Chapel Hill folks: remember the old University Mall?) I had an entire family, genealogy, backstories for everyone. It was really how I became a writer, I think.

I pulled the dollhouse out for my daughter when she was little and loved setting it all up with her. But it’s sat there for awhile, untouched. Then I started this book about family and summer and all the little things (literal and other) that we get from the people in our lives. And before I knew it, I was on Etsy, freaking out over tiny little buckets of chicken and champagne. I mean, look!

My agent says this is all about control, and I think she’s right. So often lately I’ve felt like I’m living in a snow globe someone is constantly shaking, unable to do much but dodge bits as they swirl past. With these tiny things and a glue gun, though, I can make some kind of sense, even if it’s just pretend. Sometimes, that’s the best you can do.

Have a good day, everyone!