Midlife is full of surprises. Not all of them are working for me.
At forty-two I've had my share of ups and downs. Relatively normal, except when the definition of normal changes ... drastically.
New York Times bestselling romance author: CheckAmazing besties: CheckLovely home: CheckPet cat named Thick Stella who wants to kill me: CheckWacky Tabacky–dealing Aunt: CheckCheating husband banging the weather girl on our kitchen table: CheckNasty divorce: Oh yesCharacters from my novels coming to life: Umm ... yesCrazy: Possibly
Four months of wallowing in embarrassed depression should be enough. I'm beginning to realize that no one is who they seem to be, and my life story might be spinning out of my control. It's time to take a shower, put on a bra, and wear something other than sweatpants. Difficult, but doable.
With my friends—real and imaginary—by my side, I need to edit my life before the elusive darkness comes for all of us.
The plot is no longer fiction. It's my reality, and I'm writing a happy-ever-after no matter what. I just have to find the write hook.
