In one sense, this is the literal culmination of a vacation years in the making and months in the planning. In another sense, I think I needed to prove to myself that it could be done.

But it was Ratatouille which told me that change is nature, and it was Hamilton which reminded me that I am never satisfied.

There is a rhythm to this living, this living, this living, and maybe we're at a point where it really a project of mine.

You write another, and another, and another. Time keeps moving, and the words keeping flowing (hopefully).

I wrote because I remembered that so many of the great moments of life are made of small ones. I wrote because I needed to hear that compassion could overcome grief, that a cup of tea was the most healing thing in the world, that winter was a season owed respect but that summer matters too, and that stories are a power beyond anything we see.

A year of grief, of growth, of rest, of magic, of creation, of beginnings after endings.

There are times in one’s lives where one realizes they are watching the advent of something new, great, and wonderful.

I think it is little surprise that I create when I am in pain. I think that’s as valid a motivation to create as anything.

There’s a genuine sense of connection, and that everlasting sense of a missed connection which lingers on the periphery of recent death.

It is a story which encourages you to slow down and appreciate not the great works of heroes and villains, but the small moments shared on the journey towards those great works.