People ask me all the time how I come up with such wild, chaotic storylines.

And I’m like—have you met my life?

If I ever wrote it down exactly as it happened, you’d probably call it “too much.” Plot twist: most of the time I actually dumb it down so it sounds believable. Real life is way messier. Way more unhinged. Fiction is just me putting eyeliner on the chaos so it looks cute.

So last week I finally ended up in Iceland – it’s been sitting on my bucket list forever. And honestly? It was everything. I threw myself into hostel life, tasting what a country really feels like: local food, strangers who turn into temporary friends, late-night kitchen conversations in accents I couldn’t always place.

I watch people. I steal tiny details (and sometimes their cookies), tuck them into my brain, and save them for the dry days—when I’m staring at a blank page, wondering what Archie’s grandma might have done. Maybe she’s that Icelandic lady I saw at 6 a.m., drinking kefir and looking at me like she could read my entire soul. Or maybe she’s a mix of three other strangers. Same with Josie’s best friend Haley—maybe she was the one under my bunk bed. Real life is basically my secret character vault.

So, back to my bucket list. The main item: horse riding in the Icelandic paradise.

And yes—I did it. With my tour guide, who obviously liked me the most (see attached evidence). This is the only picture of me from the whole trip, and honestly the title writes itself: “When my biggest dream came true.”

Thanks, Fjörtur. Forever grateful.

PS: Please ignore my very glamorous outfit. Waterproof jackets don’t make the dream aesthetic—but hey, mud and horse hair do.

But never mind the horse and the picture… the real stuff lives inside us. We don’t need proof.

 Except… yeah, we kind of do. Like when you’ve been obsessed since childhood with getting that one photo with the aurora borealis. Every New Year’s Eve I’d make the same promise. Every witchy women’s circle I sat in, swearing to myself: this will be the year. The year Aurora and I finally get our selfie.

I even named a guesthouse after her. Because of course I did. Yay me.

So when everything lined up—September, aurora high season, clear skies, perfect weather, zero rain—I thought, finally. Finally! Except… tiny plot twist: you can’t see the aurora during the biggest full moon of the year. Even with a lunar eclipse across half of Europe. But not Iceland. Nope. Iceland said: not today, girl.

But here’s the sunny side of the story: that was the exact day my new novella was born. I can even tell you the moment. I jumped on this tiny bus, and the Chief of Auroras grabbed the mic and said:

“Welcome on board, everyone. My name is Frímann. Kind of like Freeman—Morgan Freeman. But if you forget, just call me Dude!”

And that’s when I knew… even if Aurora ghosted me—I will chase the hell out of it.