One Year, One Book, No Excuses.

Today I turn 39, and I’m officially putting the universe on notice: by the time I turn 40, I’m publishing a book.

Not thinking about it, not quietly tinkering while making excuses. A real book. With my name on the cover. Something you can hold, read, spill coffee on, and—if you must—use as a coaster.

For a while now, I’ve been banking poems for four different book ideas. Some are personal, some nostalgic, some wander into stranger worlds, some wrestle with loss. They’ve been living rent-free in my head, floating around the cloud, hiding on some thumb drive I swear I’ve almost lost twice. They deserve better than digital purgatory. They need a spine and some paper to call home.

This is my rally cry. My bucket-list gauntlet. I’m not waiting for perfect. Perfect is boring. Perfect is the enemy of done. When I hit 40, I’d rather be holding a book I wrote than shaking my fist at the neighbor kids while complaining about my back.

If you see me slacking, feel free to call me out. Ask me how it’s going. Tease me mercilessly if I stall. Cheer me on if you want to. Accountability is the name of the game.

Twelve months. One book. Let’s do this.