Wednesday 7th January, 2026
In Which the Weather Attempts Murder and Fails
Today was a scorcher - 42 degrees, and quite frankly, rude about it. The kind of heat that makes the pavement shimmer and has everyone questioning their life choices. Kris and I didn’t expect much from sales; we assumed the entire town would be lying face-down in front of the nearest air-conditioner.
As it turns out, holiday-makers are made of sturdier stuff than we are.
We had a steady trickle of families through the door, all grateful for the cool air and distraction, and while it wasn’t a big sales day, it wasn’t nothing either. Honestly, I think both Kris and I were just relieved to exist in a room below boiling point.
I started pulling together December’s sales reports - the first proper batch since we opened the shop - and it felt strangely momentous. There’s something deeply satisfying about sending payments out to so many indie authors. Like the shop is not just selling stories, but circulating them. Returning energy where it came from.
A lovely family came in during the hottest part of the afternoon, with two girls around twelve or thirteen - bright-eyed and curious, the kind of kids who are already building worlds in their heads. They found the medieval belts with pouches and dagger sheaths, and both immediately fell in love. Their parents bought them one each.
I cannot tell you how proud it makes me to see girls that age strapping a dagger to their waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Claiming their power. Owning their coolness. It makes me hopeful for the world they’ll build.
We didn’t sell any books today - the heat defeated even the most devoted browsers - but we did have one perfect moment: a man who had been on a cruise with his mates came in on a very specific mission to find a tuxedo t-shirt. And Kris, the legend that she is, remembered that we did, in fact, have such a shirt. She pulled it out… and it was his exact size. This astonished everyone involved, including the shirt, which had been preparing itself for a long and uneventful retirement on the rack.
Tiny victories. Cool air. Small joys.
Kristen also finished one of her dresses today - a beautiful, flowing white gown that will can be worn as the base for a ren-faire costume - but she’s not feeling happy with it. Imposter syndrome is a sneaky creature; it doesn’t shout, it just nibbles at the edges of your confidence until everything feels a little less shiny than it should.
The heat never helps, of course. Everything feels heavier on days like this.
But I wish she could see herself the way I do: talented, dedicated, endlessly creative. And I wish anyone reading this who’s struggling with imposter syndrome could hear this too - you’re not failing. You’re just standing in a doorway between who you were and who you’re becoming. That feeling is uncomfortable, but it’s also proof that you’re growing.
And you’re not alone in it. None of us are.
At some point, while we were sitting behind the counter trying not to melt into the floorboards, I found myself thinking about the women around us: Christine at the fairy shop on one corner of the mall, Deb at the café on the other, the hairdresser a few doors down. All of us building something, making something, stitching together our small dreams with whatever thread we have.
I’m so proud that our little mall holds a village of women who keep going, keep creating, keep showing up for one another.
Earlier today, Christine found a dress at the op shop with a little hole in it. She brought it over to Kris, who fixed it on her sewing machine without a second thought. Later, Christine arrived with a punnet of fresh eggs from her hens to say thank you.
It’s that kind of thing - that simple, generous, quietly extraordinary kindness - that makes me feel like we belong here.
And that was today. Hot, hazy, quietly proud.
We’re so grateful to be part of this little village.
