It’s the last day of my debut author year, and I can’t resist just one final post. In this blog, I promised to reveal the ups, the downs, and everything in between of the debut novelist experience. My prior posts provided some details as they happened, but here is my year-end wrap up.

As I reflect on this past year, I feel an enormous sense of gratitude: for my readers, who have embraced A Good Family so warmly; for my family, who’ve put up with my endless silly selfies and searching for Little Free Libraries and hours wasted on Canva and social media; and most especially for my fellow authors, who have shared the ups and downs of this unique debuting-during-a-pandemic experience.

I know many authors are crushed that the pandemic has prevented them from having in-person launch events and book readings, but I’m actually fine with it. You might even say I’m relieved.

I was about to turn my calendar over to September when I realized — YIKES! — that I haven’t blogged the entire month of August. Not that anyone is keeping track, but it’s bothersome to this detail-oriented Virgo to let an entire month go by without posting something here.

I started this blog saying that I would document what it’s like to be a debut author, and yet ever since my book’s debut on July 14, I haven’t blogged even once.

With the publication of A Good Family just three weeks away (24 days to July 14, to be exact, but who’s counting?) and everything that’s going on globally, I’m worried the book will be immediately relegated to the remainders bin.

In April, I pushed myself out of my comfort zone by writing a daily Isolation Journals blog post. In May, I decided to confront my aversion to self-promotion by posting a daily selfie on my Instagram site. I could only do so my shielding myself, figuratively and often literally, behind a book and author I admire. Asian Pacific American Heritage Month provided the perfect excuse.

Thirty days ago, I embarked on this Isolation Journals journey. It’s meant more to me than I could’ve expected. I’ve deepened connections with people I already knew. I’ve made connections with people I wouldn’t have met otherwise. And I’ve connected with myself in a way that would normally have required months of therapy.

Sung to the tune of I Contain Multitudes (2020)

With apologies to Walt Whitman and Bob Dylan

I’m a lawyer, accustomed to sitting behind a desk in a San Francisco high rise. My mentor was in charge of the hydroelectric dams that dotted the Northern California landscape. We were a modern-day odd couple. Felix and Oscar. City mouse and country mouse. Eva Gabor and Eddie Albert.

She was metastatic, which meant her cancer was incurable. She was a lesbian and artist and natural leader. She spoke truth to power and never apologized. She scared the shit out of me.

There’s a quiet town way north of San Francisco, not far from the Oregon border, that is popular among a certain circle. The first year we went, I couldn’t understand the appeal. The town has one main street, but many of the shabby shopfronts were closed.

When I used to commute to work, before the current unpleasantness, I spent a lot of time listening to podcasts. Mostly NPR. This American Life. Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me. Fresh Air with Terry Gross.

It was the week before my 39th birthday. My siblings had flown from the east coast to join me, my husband, and our two sons for vacation in San Diego. We shared a rented condo, ate fish tacos from Roberto’s, went to the beach and Legoland. It was pure bliss.

I’m hanging out with my friends Julie DelBello and Lisa Wilinsky. We’ve spent the past hour at Fashion Island checking out the jewelry (we all got our ears pierced last year) and at Spencer’s laughing at the gag toilet paper and scandalous t-shirts. We stroll the mall’s main hallway, hoping to run into some cute boys from school, when we pass the full-length mirrors at the entrance of The Gap.

It’s then that I see our reflection: two American girls and an Oriental one. Who is that girl who doesn’t blend in?

When I read today’s prompt, I was reminded of a video I saw on Facebook called Cute House that made me laugh out loud. Take seven minutes to watch it now. I’ll wait, don’t hurry.

It’s less than five minutes from my house to Golden Gate Park. My preferred route is up the steep road through the Arguello Gate and then down the narrow footpath behind the Victorian-era Conservatory of Flowers. The Dahlia Garden is one of my favorite places in the city.

There’s a scene in Little Women in which Dr. Bhaer, the erudite German professor and unlikely love interest, tells Jo March, the headstrong protagonist and aspiring writer, that the “sensational” pieces she has written are not worthy of her – that they are, in a word, crap. Understandably, this puts a bit of a damper on their budding romantic relationship.

The mask is itchy against my face. The pale pink cotton felt light and smooth when I selected it from my bin of scraps. Thirteen years ago, I washed the fabric in the mildest detergent before using it to sew a baby quilt for my first-born niece. I thought time would soften the fabric, but I was wrong.

Charlotte’s Web is my favorite book. It was my favorite book from the first time I read it in second grade – or, rather, the time it was read to me by my teacher Mrs. Whitelaw at Heritage Heights Elementary School in North Tonawanda, New York. After Mrs. Whitelaw read the last page and closed the book, I went to the school library to check it out so I could read it myself. I’ve read the book countless times since then.