1. As an introvert I sometimes find being a writer to be a terrifying process. The act of writing is great—wonderful even. But everything else: reaching out to readers, projecting a fun image online—that’s where I struggle. I was not popular in school. I’m certainly no more popular now. And sometimes the writing game feelings a little too much like I’m jumping up and down, waving my hands around, asking for people to pay attention. And well—I’m too shy for that. I’m too worried that people won’t like what they see. Worse; I’m worried that even if they do see me, they won’t care. 

Wouldn't that be lovely?

Wow, somehow I managed to read six books in May, which kind of blows my mind considering all I had going on. Wait—that’s not entirely true. When life gets crazy and my stress levels go up, I find I read more in order to try and balance things out.

• BROKEN BAY BY ANDREA DUNLOP - This one was short and sweet and boy oh boy did I want more. Andrea Dunlop is a fantastic writer.
• WOMAN NO.17 BY EDAN LEPUCKI (BOTM) - This one started off with so much potential, but left me wanting. 
• WRITE NAKED BY JENNIFER PROBST - This book was absolutely brilliant. I am certain that Jennifer's teachings will take my writing to a new level. A must for every romance writer. 
• THE FOXE & THE HOUND BY R.S. GREY - I enjoy Rachel's books; they're light and fun and always funny. While this one wasn't my favorite, I still enjoyed it.
• YOURS TO BARE BY JESSICA HAWKINS - My first (and certainly not my last) Hawkins read. This book was so sexy and I absolutely loved it. So much so that I finished it, put it down, and picked up Something In The Way.
• SOMETHING IN THE WAY BY JESSICA HAWKINS - I read this book in one day, that's how good it was. If you like forbidden romances, pick this one up. But just a warning: it's a three part series, so it leaves off on a cliffhanger.

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Coming Up

I've just put in my order for BOTM and here's what I chose:

• The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid
• Theft By Finding: Diaries (1977-2002) by David Sedaris
• A Million Junes by Emily Henry

If you want keep up with what I read during the month, follow me on instagram @racheldelxo and @alovelettertobooks.

1. You give me a book or a movie with a protagonist writer (or photographer, for that matter) and I'm all in. Just one of the many reasons that I'm thoroughly enjoying my first Jessica Hawkins read, Yours To Bare. 

2. It's been a good week. The hubby and I got out on the jet ski for the first time this season, we watched a movie together in the middle of the day. I've been writing; not just my novel but a lot more journaling, which always makes me feel great. Do you keep a journal? I've been working out again, which feels truly great. Work seems to have calmed down a little and I feel like I can finally breathe normalizing again. Plus, it's a long weekend, so there's still tomorrow to sit back and do absolutely nothing.

3. The heat here in Las Vegas is ramping up. I find myself kicking off the covers mid-sleep and turning on the overhead fan and boy! am I sleeping well. Finally. 

1. I spent some time (a little too much time) scrolling through the Instagram account of an author I admire. I went all the way back to the beginning. At first I was dismayed. I thought: my feed will never look like this. I’ll never be able to write as quickly as her and share so many new book release posts. There will never be photos of me posing with fans at book signings. I can’t even remember how long it’s been since I was able to say “I just wrote ‘the end’.” 

I was feeling sorry for myself. Oh god, that’s embarrassing to say, but it’s true.

But I kept scrolling. And slowly, I snapped out of it. I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started to feel inspired, motivated, determined.

I opened up my novel and wrote for the first time this week.

I know how to just be.

3. Late Saturday night I caught a bug, or something, that had me incapacitated for most of the night. When I woke this morning, my body was aching like never before. I could barely roll over without my stomach twisting and turning. It's been a while since I've had anything like this, whatever it's called. But if I really think about it it happens when I'm at my worst. When I'm stressed out and not myself and not eating well or exercising enough.

1. I’m a strange person; this is no secret. I was that kid in school who spent more of her time bent over a notebook journaling or writing short stories. I was painfully shy, wildly unpopular and the recipient of a whole lot of bullying. When I started College I thought the best thing to do would be to hide those parts of me that people thought were strange. I wrote at home or on the bus to and from school. I didn’t tell people I wanted to be a writer. I never told anyone I played the flute—not just played it; I performed, I competed, I took theory lessons alongside my weekly lessons. I sketched here and there, but rarely showed anyone my work.

And then I grew up and I learned that no one is universally liked. I cannot please everyone. And by hiding my true self I am doing a terribly disservice to myself. 

I’m happy to say that I’m more strange than ever. And I no longer hide it. Plus, I found in a partner an equally strange man who constantly makes me laugh. I read somewhere that one of the key factors of a successful marriage is that the couple be able to make each other laugh. So, we’ve got that down pat.

2. There’s an indie bookstore downtown that holds the most interesting events. On Thursday I convinced Dela to join me. It's been a while since I've felt that inspired, so thank you, Laura McBride. And to make the night even more golden, I finally got to visit PublicUs. It's officially my favorite coffee place. 

3. I’m pretty confident in saying that besides ensuring our basic needs are met (shelter, food, love, health, etc) that everyone just wants to feel understood. To be surrounded by people who get you. Really get you.

When I left Canada I was convinced that no one in Las Vegas would understand me. How could they when they didn’t know my past? And maybe, for the most part, this remains true—though not for the reasons I once expected. No one here has known me for longer than seven years. The majority of them don’t know that I grew up singing and performing Hakuna Matata with my three cousins at our cottage every summer. They don’t know that once, while my best friend and I were babysitting her younger brother, we locked him in his bedroom and he put his bunk bed ladder through the back of his door. They might not know the details of why I have a complicated relationship with my mother, or why I’m a total daddy’s girl—but, they get me. 

It turns out they don’t need to have known me for my whole life to understand me.

They know that if I’m not writing; I’m grumpy as hell. That I’m fiercely loyal. That I’m terribly hard on myself. They know I drink too much coffee and that I can’t stop listening to John Mayer and Ed Sheeran. They know I read voraciously. They know I’m absolutely useless after 8pm and that I get the most work done between 7 and 11 am. 

They know me. I am understood.