Lya Badgley

In just a few days, I leave for Serbia, once again taking a risk and trusting the unknown path ahead. It carries its own kind of promise, even as it unsettles. I feel that familiar mix of excitement and disorientation that comes with change.

For now, I’m standing at a threshold—between seasons, between places, between what has been and what is just beginning to take shape—aware of the quiet tension and possibility that lives in this in-between space.

Amid the packing and planning, I’ve been sorting through old boxes—journals, photographs, fragments of memory, pieces of a life lived across places and years.

I spent much of the ’80s in bands, a thread I hadn’t followed in some time, and one I now find myself returning to as I set my next book in 1983 Seattle.

The early stages of a new book feel less like invention and more like excavation. There’s something both grounding and unsettling about revisiting earlier versions of ourselves—seeing what has endured, what has shifted, and what still waits to be understood.

Last night was my final in-person book club here in Snohomish. These evenings have meant more to me than I can easily say—the conversations, the shared curiosity, the way stories open when experienced together. I’ll miss being there in person, but I’m grateful that distance doesn’t have to mean disconnection (yes, they have internet in Serbia 😊), and I’ll still be joining remotely.

Thank you, as always, for reading and for being part of this journey.

Warmly,
Lya