I signed off on the pass pages for my sophomore novel in early February, six months before its August 13 pub date. Despite that gap’s obtuse quiet, I promised myself I wouldn’t spiral. is, after all, my second rodeo: I’ve done this before! I know how to temper sales expectations! (Though, like, *what if* my novel goes viral on TikTok?) I know to stay off Goodreads! (It is my third most visited page in Chrome.
) I know to distract myself by writing my next novel! (Creating one world while promoting another is, to put it mildly, disorienting.) Enter Legos. Yes, the tiny plastic blocks beloved by toddlers and loathed by barefoot parents.
Over the past two months, I have built five robots, three helicopters, two sharks, a speed boat, a science lab, the Super Mario villain Bowser’s muscle car, a tractor, and Hogwarts, to name a few. These little creations have been my balm, my saviors, my beautiful distractions. My foray into the land of Lego zen was somewhat accidental.
My older recently turned five and is obsessed with his builds. I had previously relegated Lego duty to my husband: he preferred the block activities and I preferred the imaginary play ones. And then, I got my first trade review.
It was curt, a touch misanthropic, and utterly devastating. A younger version of myself would have done something destructive, like parked at the bar across from my apartment and downed two martinis while wallowing. As the parent of a three- and a five-year-old, I no longer have tha.