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This year will be that year for me. The year when I turned 30, finished my first novel, went back to Australia and you know, all of that. The important bits.

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I’ve always struggled a bit with the fact that I tend to make things Big and Important. Everyone else seems so cool with traveling the world and doing things and experiencing and all, like it was nothing. I don’t do that. For me most of life is a monumentally huge thing. I am in myself so very grateful that I’m alive and that I get to experience all this.

Because I’m lucky. I can more or less live not from an ordinary job but from what I want to do. I can write and talk and work with what I love. Even if lots of people love their work (I bet they do), I’m doing this thing called poetry, art or whatever name you give it because it’s what I somewhere on a fundamental level need to do. And I’m good enough to survive on that.
I’m thankful. An emotion mostly associated with religion and being a die hard atheist I feel like I shouldn’t even use that word, but I will.

Right now, I am at my parents place, with the christmas tree artfully blinging about in the background, trying to summarize what happened this year. And yes, there has been downs amongst all the ups, but nothing I couldn’t get through.
Biggest thing this year has to be the novel. I finished it! I’m done! It might never be published but I rocked those 200 pages of text like a motherfucker. Since then I’ve almost finished a first draft for my second novel and started sketching on my third. I’ve started writing in English as well, which is huge. I can’t even begin to describe the impact it has had on my understanding of the mechanics behind narratives.

This year I’ve found heaps of new friends that have challenged my intellect, forced me to think again and revisit old ideas. Mostly they’ve challenged my social skills though and have enforced my belief that the right approach to all conversations is to just say ”Is that so? How interesting, what are you gonna do about that?” and let them carry on.

Mostly the summary of this year is: I can handle this shit. Even if it goes the wrong way and everything just falls apart I can handle it. It might take time and it might be horribly painful but I can do it. If I could use four years of my life to painfully drag myself through a manuscript that I was almost scared of, I can handle anything.
So thank you, 2013, for being awesome and shitty and lovely in a big tangle. I liked you, and i’ll even be a bit sad to see you go. But, as in life and love and trams, there will always be a next one.