I have a friend who keeps a list of every time she eats dumplings in a year. She keeps another list, too, of all of the best things that happen to her: nice walks, good conversations, major professional victories. The dumplings get their own list, though, because every time you eat a dumpling, isn’t it one of the best things that can happen?

Almost everything I’ve written in this newsletter this year has been about the hard parts. To be fair, there have been so many hard parts. But of course there have also been other things, so I thought that’s how I would send us off: with the best moments of 2025.

For instance, I got to hang out with my friends’ kids a lot. They sat on my lap and reached instinctively for my hand when we crossed streets; they yelled “Zan!!!” across many rooms, and their parents yelled back that they had to say please or else find a way to ask for my attention more politely. And I enforced the social norm, but also I was pleased that they knew that I was listening. Knew that if they yelled my name, I would always come.

The cat purred in my face most mornings; I found a physical therapist who like, 90% cured the lower back problem that had been plaguing me for years. I hoofed up the hill to Dodger Stadium on many perfect LA nights and cheered many perfect Dodgers victories, including another World Series win. My friends sent me pictures of my books everywhere they saw them.

There are specifics: that sweaty, end-of-heatwave night in New York when N & I drank several martinis, ate steak; the day MG and I took A to the beach and we hunted for shells and put our feet in the water and he yelled “I’m so happy!” over and over again. The moon on the water in Montauk.

But really, looking back, a lot of this year was ordinary. Every Wednesday I drove to Silver Lake and started set up for another WDI for SELAH; most Fridays I had drinks with the same group of friends, week in and week out. I saw my family almost every weekend and L and I lifted weights three days a week. I got up and wrote every day, and even though I didn’t make enough money and I’m not sure if the new book is good yet, I did keep working. I can say that.

The thing is, though, that the ordinariness is so shot through with the hard stuff that it’s impossible to separate them out. L’s house burned in January; now while we lift I hear about mulching projects and new fixtures. Which neighbors are coming back and who can’t bear— or afford— it. Every week at SELAH we discuss what to do if ICE shows up. I cried at several happy hours and in my parents’ kitchen; at my desk, on my couch, on the drive out to Montauk and I think the drive back, too.

I felt leaky this year. Sadness kept me damp just under the skin. I felt so acutely every single thing I didn’t have. I try to tell myself that’s good. That that’s a side effect of wanting a bigger life.

Probably I’m right, and probably it is. That didn’t make it any easier to feel.

I don’t want to write a whole big thing about it, so let’s just do the end of year financial here. I made just under $70,000— $35,000 less than last year. Combined with my rent doubling, it undid me. I ended up borrowing about half of that rent from my parents. Probably next year I will change careers.

In the mean time, though, I’m going to teach a romance writing workshop in the new year. Tell me if you want to participate.