My Post-Vacation Life:

No, my vacation did not look like this.

By Thio Isobel Moss

While Blind Spot was wrapping up, there was a corner of my room that felt like it was quietly judging me. Random things had collected there—on the furniture, on the floor, in that way clutter does when you’re too busy to notice it forming. I’m not a tidy person; I like a certain level of clutter. But this bothered me.

So I made a promise: when the book went into editing, I would clean.

I kept that promise, and it was glorious.

Bump is in editing—meaning my dad is going over it and muttering about manatee mailboxes while chortling to himself—and I celebrated with a two-week vacation. My mother complained that it wasn’t much of a vacation, since I worked at least three hours every day and repainted my bedroom.

It was perfect.

I only wrote what I wanted, when I wanted, and focused hard on marketing. March has been my best month for paid sales.

After months of writing, cleaning felt almost indulgent. There’s a bone-deep satisfaction in finishing something physical. I’ve had the paint for my room for two years. Now the torn drywall—once hidden behind seventies-style striped harvest gold—is spackled, sanded, and painted.

White.

I hate white walls.

This is pure, matte white because I couldn’t find a wallpaper that fit both my taste and my budget, so I’ve decided to paint a mural instead. I have the stencils. I have the paint. I have not yet begun.

That may not happen until Objects in the Mirror goes into editing.

After finishing a big sedentary project, I’m itching for physical ones. I’m keeping a list. Soon, hopefully, my house will look astonishingly well-maintained, my quilts will be finished, the garden will thrive, and my cat will be deeply suspicious of the sudden shift in lifestyle.

I’m still riding a post-vacation afterglow. Today I made homemade marzipan and lemonade. Yesterday it was macaroni salad. I finished an excellent book. It feels like we’ve crossed from false spring into something closer to summer—the sun just shy of sizzling, humidity low, a steady breeze.

The world is full of simple pleasures.

Today I started tackling the small things I’ve neglected—organizing goals for the next six months, mapping out the launch schedule for Bump. I’m not looking forward to formatting, but I suspect it will go more smoothly this time.

And in the back of my mind, Objects in the Mirror is waiting.

There’s a lot to do before I get there—a book launch is no small thing—but I’m ready to write again. At the start of my vacation, it felt like I could finally breathe. Now the ideas are back, restless and insistent. Writing again will feel like opening a window in a stale room.

Several years ago, I visited a friend in Houston. We went to the beach, to Waco, to a Korean festival, and toured the Johnson Space Center. I even saw Buzz Aldrin.

It was wonderful—but when I got home, it felt like it had happened to someone else. The stress was still there, waiting.

The last two weeks feel like what a vacation is supposed to be: a reset you can carry with you. Every time I look at those walls, I feel a little proud—and wonder where I put the stencils.

I intend to fill my freezer while I still have the energy. When reality reasserts itself, I’ll be ready.

For now, I’m content. The walls are done. The work is waiting. And in a few hours, This Kingdom Will Not Kill Me releases—and it’s now part of my job to read it.

I love my work. I’m incredibly grateful I get to do it.