It’s not often you’re at a kid’s birthday party and meet a mom who says:

“I hear your daughter is perfect. Please tell me your secret.”

First, my childhood best friend needs to stop putting me on a pedestal, because I have definitely messed up as a parent.

Second, my daughter misspelled her own name on a school project this morning, forcing me to cover up the mess in duct tape. She recently received her first report card and the good news is, every teacher has reiterated how kind, respectful, and eager to learn she is.

The bad news is, she will definitely attend academic bridge camp this summer.

But as her over-therapized mom and dad tried their best not to lose their shit over less-than-perfect marks (like our boomer parents would have) she asked:

“So, is it good?"

I immediately think of earlier that morning, when I was dangling from a pull-up bar, doing my best to hang on for the allotted 15 seconds, let alone hoist my chin above the bar.

“Even if you aced every subject,” I answer, giving her a hug, “there would still be things to improve. You’re never done learning, you’re forever a work in progress.”

Hence, a new name for the newsletter was born: Forever in Progress.

Same Content, Different Winamp Skin

I’ll still be posting personal essays about ordinary life and writing, but with more frequency—and a lot more snark than you’ve gotten from me in the past.

I am horrendous at unique selling propositions, but think of it as if Steven Pressfield’s blog and Laura Belgray’s newsletter gave birth to a child who spent their teenage years on LiveJournal and grew up to be a middle-aged millennial. (See? I warned you.)

Expect stories about how delightfully imperfect I am, because like my daughter, I’m still learning and growing. Like how I’ve been driving my SUV for two years and still have trouble backing it up into my garage—once knocking over my husband’s vintage motorcycle, and denting both cars in the process of trying to prop it back up. (In my defense, I have an old backup camera! Without lines!)

Or how much I resented my husband for “making me” shovel the driveway while my five-year-old was building a snow monster, texting my friends for validation, and lashing out at him afterwards because that’s a man’s job! (But I’m still a feminist, okay?)

Oh, and I’m four years into writing a novel, so there will probably be some war stories about how transforming myself from a pantser to a plotter feels like learning to walk after having your ankles bashed with a sledgehammer like in Stephen King’s Misery—except you’re the novelist and the psychotic nurse.

And if nothing else, it’ll be a space where replies go directly to my personal inbox, because no one wants to get flamed for sharing their deepest, most vulnerable thoughts through a comment thread. (If you’ve been texting me directly, that still works too!)

So grab a Snapple, sit back in your butterfly chair, and make sure to forward this email to 7 of your friends, or else you’ll have bad luck for the next 7 years!

(Did anyone actually do this? Just my naive 11-year-old self?)

Talk to you next week,

Sophia :)