So this is all about me (yeah, like all my other blog posts AREN’T), but this is also an announcement. A big announcement.

I got a book contract.

This happened a while ago (the very end of November), but I was waiting until I got the contract in my hot little hands from the publisher before I announced. However, I’ve learned (again!) that publishing runs at a pace that makes tectonic plate shifts seem supersonic. Here’s the deal: My Golden Heart finaling book, Thrown, will be published as an e-book by Simon & Schuster’s Pocket Star line in December, 2013.


Yes I am ecstatic. Yes I pinch myself to make sure it’s not all a dream. Yes I float through my days.

But wait, there’s more. Not only is the deal for Thrown, but for two more books set in the same world as Thrown. So it’s a three-book deal. A THREE-BOOK DEAL WITH A MAJOR BIG-SIX PUBLISHER. Am I over the moon? Yes. Yes I am.

This started at the Romance Writers of America’s national conference in Anaheim in July. I met my now-editor there, but NOT because she was in any way interested in my book, but because I went to two workshops where she was on the panel, and she was hilarious. I spoke to her, and then found out when I was back in Denver, that I was following her on Twitter. I looked at her profile, and lo and behold, she was a HORSEWOMAN! Obviously I had to tweet her immediately and tell her my book was about horses. She said she’d love to see it, and I sent it to her when I was done revising, in October. And the rest, as they say, is history. So basically, I sold my book on Twitter. And yes Abby and I talked about horses for twenty minutes during our first phone call.

I also got an agent. The delightful Emily Sylvan Kim of Prospect Literary. I was quite spoiled, as I got to choose from several agents after I told those who I’d queried that I had a book contract. (From a Big Six publisher. Did I mention that?) I still managed to make it incredibly stressful. But I have to say, it’s really really fun to talk about “my agent” and “my editor.” Like, really fun.

So that’s my news. Thank you for your support and good wishes through my novel-writing odyssey. It has paid off in spades and my dream is coming true.

  • OBB and me.

    5 Nov

    My husband is an actor. Yes, I am secretly married to George Clooney.

    Okay not really. (Damn! I’d love to have a pet pig. That’s truly the only reason I’d EVER think it would be in any way pleasant to be Mrs. George Clooney. Honey*.)

    My husband is actually handsomer and talenteder than Mr. Clooney. (I realize I just lost a few readers because “talenteder” isn’t a word.) Here’s what I’ve learned, being the spouse of an active thespian: You have to participate in what a seasoned theater person told me is “Obligation Theatre.”

    What is Obligation Theatre, or OT? As much as possible, if an actor you know is in a nearby production, you must attend said production. For me, it’s OT by association (OTBA). Depending on the show, it can be rewarding or painful, and is usually somewhere in the middle. But your actor-friend is always happy to see you after the show and thanks you for coming, so that’s nice.

    The other benefit? It guilts actor-friends into attending my husband’s shows. (If you’re interested and live in or near Denver, he’s starring in the Colorado Springs Fine Arts Center production of “A Christmas Story” this holiday season—fun for the whole family!) So he’s got that going for him. Which is nice.

    How does this relate to writing? My “pre-published” novel, Thrown, was a 2012 finalist for the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart award. A bunch of Firebirds (the official nickname of the class of 2012) have secured publishing contracts and their Golden Heart books are now coming out as real live novels.


    An author’s version of OT is what I’ve christened OBB, or Obligation Book Buying. I feel obligated to buy the books written by my fellow Firebirds, read them, then review them in as many places as possible. So far I have two: Susan Boyer’s Lowcountry Boil and Tracy Brogan’s Crazy Little Thing. I love buying these books! For one thing, it makes me happy to support my “classmates.” For another, it’s just plain cool to see a book for sale on Amazon by someone I know personally. For a third—and this reason is no slouch—it gives me hope that I too, will be published soon. They did it, why can’t I? It gives me full-blown, unmitigated, hooked-on-steroids optimism.

    I hope I’ll have to do a ton of OBB in the years to come. And, of course, I hope my author friends will follow suit after I get The Call.

    As always, thank you for your support!

    * In case my husband reads this.

  • Brooke and me cantering in the warm-up ring at a show.

    Maybe nobody puts Baby in a corner, but somebody put bloggie in a corner. That somebody would be me. Apologies off the blocks for calling my blog “bloggie.” I couldn’t help myself with that Dirty Dancing reference. But what’s three months between friends? My friend Brad shamed me into writing a post mach schnell.

    My excuse is, hey, I didn’t have time to post because I was polishing my novel, the whole reason I have a blog in the first place. And I’m pleased to report that it’s done! I’m sending it to agents and editors. Don’t get me wrong, I realize there will be more revisions. But if I’m very lucky, the next round will come from an editor who has seen fit to publish Thrown!


    Last weekend I had the pleasure of auditing a dressage clinic given by Jan Ebeling, the guy who rode Rafalca (Anne Romney’s mare, of Stephen Colbert foam-finger fame) in the London Olympics. This clinic was a dandy, because Mr. Ebeling was not only the expert one would expect of an Olympian, but was an effective, patient and gracious teacher. I wasn’t sure what to expect—sometimes I think trainers who are famous only want to work with advanced riders on very fancy, expensive horses—but Jan took each horse-and-rider partnership and made them better, no matter their level or natural talents.

    As with many sports, you can’t help but touch on the basics, no matter what the exercise. With dressage, it’s rhythm, relaxation, connection, impulsion, straightness and collection (in that order). If those are in place, everything else is easy. I couldn’t help but link it to writing.

    Take tempo, for instance. In dressage, tempo is the speed of the horse’s footfalls. In dressage, generally speaking, you want the tempo to be consistent within the gait you’re riding, especially if you’re in competition. In training, sometimes you want to vary the tempo within the gait, usually slowing it, then speeding up again. In writing, you want to vary the tempo–a steady tempo would be dull, although you want your story to move along at a nice pace.

    Another parallel with tempo in both disciplines is, you often slow the tempo to execute a more difficult movement. In dressage, the tempo (or cadence) of the passage (a majestic, slow-motion trot) is slower than a “regular” trot. The tempo of the canter in a canter pirouette (the horse’s hind legs stay almost in the same spot, while the front legs describe a circle around them) is slower than a “working” canter because the horse has shifted much of his weight to his hind legs. Same with writing. Often, if you have an emotional scene, you slow down the tempo. You want to give it more impact, and give the reader time to absorb and experience it. If you have an action scene, you speed it up for similar reasons.

    Then there’s connection, which in dressage has to do with the horse’s contact with the bit and the horse’s correct posture, which allows for balanced movement. In writing, I think of it as keeping the reader in mind—connecting with the audience. This encompasses things like keeping the characters true to themselves (don’t you hate it when you’re reading along, and you’re forced to say, “Huh? That character would NEVER willingly eat a sea urchin!”) and not bogging down the story with all the impressive research I may have done just because I find it fascinating.

    Overall though, the main lesson in writing as in riding, is to have fun. Yes I know writing is hard, and so is riding. The best riders make it look like they’re just sitting there, not doing a thing, while the horse happily dances. Same with the best writers, who entertain us and move us so effortlessly, we don’t notice the writing because we are absorbed in the story. But honestly, I love doing both. In riding, there are days when I am so in tune with my horse that I can literally think what I want and the horse does it. In writing, it’s those days where the characters have come alive and are off and running, and I merely have to keep up and take notes—the scenes write themselves. It is easy. It is joyful. And I strive for this bliss every time I mount my horse or open my MacBook to write. I hope to do both for a very, very long time.

    As always, thank you for your support.

    Oh, and I’ll be guest posting for the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers blog, “Chiseled in Rock,” on Wednesday, October 31. It’s about cheetahs and sloths. Feel free to stop by!

  • Me and the iconic LAX thingy.

    At last, at last, I am at the Romance Writers of America National Conference, in Anaheim, California, home to Disneyland and every chain restaurant ever invented. (In that way it’s much like my charmless, soulless Denver suburb of Westminster so I feel right at home.) I can’t see much of Disney from my hotel room except for the parking lot. But mouse ears are everywhere.

    And until Sunday, so are romance writers. I just found this out—with 10,000 members, the RWA is the second-largest group of writers after the Screen Actors Guild or one of those screenwriting trade groups. I’m going to assume this is accurate, because then it makes my finaling in the Golden Heart contest even more impressive. In fact, in my mind, I’m going to pretend RWA has two million members. Yes, that’s what I’m going to do.

    Okay, I hate to do this to you, but I started this blog post on Wednesday and now it’s Friday. This conference never stops! I ducked out of the gathering of Firebirds (the nickname of the Golden Heart class of 2012) by the pool to, yes, watch the Olympics opening ceremonies because I am an Olympic fiend. I’ll post lots of pictures. How’s that?

    The closest I'll ever get to a tat. Our custom-made Firebird temporary tattoos. I say the winners have to get real ones.

    Bestselling author, champion of new writers and all-around hilarious gem Cherry Adair and me at the Golden Heart Network retreat.

    At the literacy signing for charity, it's me and Susan Elizabeth Phillips, who has graciously accepted me as her official stalker.

    The fabulous bestselling author Kristan HIggins and yours truly.

    Several of us Golden Heart finalists descended upon Susan Elizabeth Phillips after her workshop.

    Fellow Single Title Contemporary Golden Heart finalist Nikki Salcedo and me. I'd knock her off if I didn't know the judges voted weeks ago.

    Overall, this is quite the wild ride and I’m being treated like minor royalty. Strangers in the elevator see that I’m a Golden Heart finalist and say, “Congratulations!” Today I got my official certificate, which made it all the more real. By this time tomorrow, we’ll know who won. But you know, I’ll be thrilled—genuinely thrilled—no matter which of us Firebirds wins each category, because I feel so connected to this group of talented, determined writers. I’m not saying (writing) this to be all PC or anything. I cheer this gifted crew on with all my heart and hope this is the last year any of us will be eligible for the Golden Heart because by next year we’ll all be published. Fly, fly, little Firebirds!

  • This morning a Romance Writers of America board member called me to tell me that Thrown is a finalist in the Single Title Contemporary category of the Golden Heart contest. I yelled in the poor woman’s ear. I hope I didn’t burst her eardrum, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I did. And the dear was too polite to say anything. When I meet her at the RWA national conference in Anaheim in July and her hearing is iffy, I’ll know why.

    I’ve been on cloud nine all day! I squee’d all the way to work, and then relentlessly badgered my wonderful boss whenever someone else emailed, tweeted, Facebooked or called to congratulate me. It’s surreal—I’ve entered a handful of contests, and I won one and finaled in another. In a few others, I didn’t do anything. Zip. Bupkis. And then, and THEN, I final in the Golden Hearts, the Oscars, the Tonys, the Rose Bowl, the Pulitzer of “pre-published” romance authors’ manuscripts! This morning was one of the best Mondays of my life, if not THE best.

    I’m going to relish this time before the RWA national conference in July, this time when I’m a finalist. I’ve been writing to friends that I’m “over the moon,” and my friend Hilary at the horse barn said that very thing (“You must be over the moon.” Hilary is British and very cool.). I’m going to enjoy filling out all the forms. I’m going to love being a finalist, every single day. And I’m going to buy a bottle of actual, real live Champagne to celebrate.

    While I’m at it, congratulations to all my fellow Golden Heart finalists. I know people say this all the time, but I’m truly honored to be in such company. I look forward to getting to know the other six finalists in my category. We are going to rock Anaheim, ladies!


  • Writing a novel has changed my day-to-day life in ways I could never have imagined. Yes, there’s the actual writing, which (usually) happens daily. But there are other ways too. Not big ways, but small ways that often take place online.

    Take blogs. Before writing, I never used to read blogs regularly. Blogs were for the politically active who needed to keep track of which senator said what to whom and what it all meant. Blogs were for the family and friends of the self-indulgent who needed to record their children’s rashes, their cat’s progress through a feline MENSA program or their attempts to build the perfect bong. Boy was I wrong.

    Now, I read Roni Loren’s Fiction Groupie blog as though she’s paying me (she isn’t…yet). I hear about blogs via several email chats, loops, etc. that I subscribe to. I don’t read other blogs as regularly, but I’m going to blame that on the fact that my company blocks blogs on my computer at work because obviously, they are the work of the devil. Or our competitors. (Who are also in cahoots with the devil.)

    I also have acquired new vicarious personal publishing holidays, or VPPHs. These are the days that my author friends’ books come out. I am delighted to find that I am genuinely excited for them and very much enjoy downloading their works to my Nook. Every time I do, I imagine the day when I’ll do the same for Thrown.

    Besides VPPHs, I have also acquired new friends via the World Wide Web. Facebook, Twitter, blogs, email loops…they have all introduced me to some damn cool and talented people who are out there writing books. Some I have met in person, some I have yet to meet. Either way, it has been rewarding. Plus, on Facebook, I can pretend Susan Elizabeth Phillips is one of my personal Facebook friends because she tells me what she’s doing every day. I’m still waiting for that invitation to go on family vacations with her, but I know it’s coming…any day now…she’s just busy…

    Writing has made me more of an observer. I now carry a notebook in my purse and a little voice recorder in the car, just in case I think of a spectacularly brilliant line of dialogue or witness what Pam Houston calls a “glimmer,” or a moment or interaction that could be the kernel of a story or scene (or whole book!). I used to say, “Oh, I’ll remember that!” and I seldom would, so now I whip out the notebook/recorder and free up those brain cells that would have forgotten it anyway.

    Writing has also made me a different kind of reader, for better or worse. Now I can’t just enjoy a book—oh no, I have to notice craft. How does the author handle her characters’ points of view? What is the sentence structure like? Ooh, that’s a good phrase, I might have to use that (properly altered). This book is superbly paced—how did the author achieve that? And on it goes. NOT that I don’t like reading—I still love it—but the genie is out of the bottle and I will never be able to just read ever again.

    But it’s all good. Sometimes change is difficult. These changes are welcome.

    Thank you again for your continued support!


  • WARNING: This post is not mostly about writing. If you’ve come here expecting a big ol’ post about writing, sorry. I’ve had an adventure further afield.

    Yesterday I went on my first audition for a musical in a long time. Why in the world would I do this? Why the sudden urge to put myself through something as nerve-wracking as a singing audition if I didn’t have to? Was someone holding a Nine to my head and counting back from five? No.

    One reason is Tom (husband) is now Mr. Theatre (yes, with the pretentious “re” ending), and that was all my fault because I gave him acting lessons for his birthday and the rest is history. He has been making chicken noises around the house to shame me into auditioning for something. So the short answer as to why I auditioned is, I had to shut up the chicken.

    But the other answer is, I wanted to. And I’ve finally accumulated enough self-confidence and courage to do it. I was a theater major, but I never auditioned for anything after graduating (and precious little while in college, truth be told) because I was in New York and never thought I was anywhere near good enough. Since I never auditioned, we’ll never know if I was right.

    After a certain theater person nudged me to audition for “The Drowsy Chaperone,” which the Vintage Theatre is doing this spring, I started taking voice lessons. Then the audition announcement came out and I took a deep breath, figuratively closed my eyes, and signed up. I was committed. The chicken lost a few decibels.

    As the audition date neared, I grasped for analogies, as I am wont to do. Maybe it’s the writer in me, but I can’t help myself. I decided it was like riding in a dressage show. I am a complete newbie to the performance side of the theater scene in general, and the Denver theater scene in particular. I equate this with having a dressage horse who is serviceable, but not what anyone would call spectacular. My lovely mare, Brooke, is a thoroughbred who is built downhill (NOT good for dressage); in dressage shows, we would have to compete against warmbloods who were imported from Europe because that’s where you go if you want a truly spectacular dressage horse. In a dressage show, you have to ride a “test,” or a pattern of movements that you memorize. In a musical audition, you prepare a song. In dressage, you can’t control who rides against you, all you can control is your ride. You practice and practice and prepare and prepare; you bathe your horse and braid her mane; you polish your good boots; you get to the show early and warm up appropriately. You go into the ring on time and ride your test as accurately as you can. That’s the part you can control. You hope that the riders with the European warmbloods will not ride as accurately as you, and then you have a shot at beating them.

    Same with singing. In my analogy the European warmbloods are the established Denver theater actors, the cadre of performers who know each other and who the directors know, too. To compete against them, all I could do was practice my song until I knew it backward and forward. I chose a dress to wear that was close to what the character I wanted to play would wear. I got a mani/pedi with deep red polish, again because the character would have done the same. I drank lots of water and warmed up in the car on the way in. I told myself I could do it.

    And then I did it. I rode an accurate test. I did everything my voice teacher told me to do, I took my time, I “owned” the stage, and I sang my song. I was on key, I was in character, I was loud, I belted the high note I used to fear. As far as I could tell, I did exactly what I wanted to do. I was nervous, yes, but it was the same kind of nervous I’d get at a horse show—not debilitating, but I shook a little. But I rode through the nerves, as it were. And as Tom pointed out, I wouldn’t have to worry about my voice careening out of control, jumping off the stage and galloping out of the theater, throwing me to the sidewalk in the process.

    Now it’s up to the theater gods. This is where it’s helpful that I’m trying to get a book published, because if you’re going through the traditional route to get your book published, the pace is glacial. Grass in winter grows much faster. Children can be conceived and born in less time. You wait MONTHS for someone to read your query/partial/manuscript. It’s the nature of the beast. In this audition process, there’s another audition next week, for dance. Callbacks are two weeks after that. Then, presumably, they announce the cast within the following week. That’s what, four weeks, tops? Four weeks? CHILD’S PLAY! That’s would be a lightning round in publishing. I can do that standing on my head.

    So now the audition is in the history books. Almost three months and hundreds of dollars later, my five minutes are over. But I did it. I did it and I’m proud of myself. It was scary and I did it anyway. Sure it took a few years of horse showing to properly prepare me (who knew?), but that’s okay too.

    Oh, and the chicken has been silenced.

  • Scary cloud, like the ones that were making me all worried and stuff.

    This post is a violent act of procrastination. Yep, I’m entirely and completely avoiding working on my manuscript because…well, because I have to go on a flight from Nashville to Denver and there are thunderstorms en route and I’m sure it’ll be bumpy and I’ve developed an annoying turbulence phobia. Me. Someone who works in the aviation industry, with pilots, and has had them explain turbulence and how the planes are built to fly through it and pilots do their best to avoid it and of all the zillions of flights every year that experience turbulence there are precious few incidents and…blah blah blah. Doesn’t matter. I’m a turbulence wimp. It’s pathetic.

    So what I’m hoping is, I’ll get so involved in revising THROWN during the flight, I won’t be bothered so much. This has happened before, so I have reason to believe it could happen again.

    I’ve had a bit of a discouraging email since my last post. An agent I was hoping would like my writing (let’s face it, I hope every agent likes my writing, but I had met this one and thought she was more likely to like my writing than your average bear), alas and alack, did not. I did not float her boat, nor did I knock her socks off. She was not wowed or gobsmacked. She was nonplussed and maybe even bored and/or annoyed.

    Oh well. Now I know. And seriously, I’ve hardly been out there in the trenches getting buffeted by dozens and dozens of brutal rejections. I have little right to complain.

    It makes me both less and more determined to get published. Right after I read it, I thought, “Yes, I am a terrible writer!” The agent never said anything like that, but that’s how I interpreted it. Then, after telling Tom and his friend Cindy what the agent wrote, and emailing with Joanne Kennedy (who I’ve dubbed my “publishing shrink” and whose latest book, Tall, Dark and Cowboy is my reading material for those times in flight when I can’t use electronic devices), I decided that it’s just one person’s opinion and someone else out there will love it and want to represent me. I just have to work really hard at rewriting it and make it sparkle even more brightly.

    I know this all builds character, but really. Do I need THAT much more character? I went to a Catholic girls’ school, for heaven’s sake! Apparently so.

    If I let this come full circle, my fear of turbulence may echo my fear of writing. Not a fear of writing exactly, but fear of making revisions that don’t sparkle enough. What if I spend hours and hours and hours rewriting to deepen my characters, and I send THROWN off to that agent who asked me to revise it, and she doesn’t think it’s all that great? What if I get a big “Meh”??!

    As I often do with myself when I worry, I go to the next logical step. Okay, what if I DO get a big meh? What if the agent doesn’t like it? I’ll have an arguably better book and I can cross another agent off my list. I’ll send it to other agents until I find someone who loves it. And if I run out of agents, then I’ll figure something else out. Self-publishing, maybe. Or not. But whatever the case, a meh isn’t the end of the world.

    Update: On my flight back to Denver, there were a few mild bumps, but nothing that made my stomach drop or made me clutch the armrests in abject terror. That’ll learn me to worry about some stupid low-pressure system! In other words, the turbulence turned out to be a big meh.

  • To prove I really was in Aspen, here's me and the glorious Maroon Bells, just outside of Aspen. Hoping my new writing task won't be as daunting as climbing one of those suckers.

    Aspen, Colorado. That’s where I am today, NOT because it’s the setting for Thrown. But curiously, an email I received recently makes it seem like perhaps fate led me here for that very reason.

    Before I tell you about the email, as we’ve strolled about town today, have I been driving Tom (long-suffering spouse) mad by saying things like, “Amanda and Grady ate here,” and “I bet Grady tried to buy Amanda those earrings” and making other references to the characters in my book? You betcha. Tom kept telling me Grady and Amanda aren’t real people, but he’s mistaken. Oh and I gave a sweet (no pun intended) woman who owned the Aspen Candy Company (a very fun place, unless you’re a molar) my author business card when she made the mistake of telling me she liked to read.

    So about that email. First, for those of you playing along at home, let me give you the box score on my agent/editor activities. Ready?

    Publishing professionals who rejected Thrown: 3
    Publishing professionals who have the full manuscript: 3
    Publishing professionals not yet heard from: 3

    This list includes agents and editors. I’m being purposely vague about who’s doing what because I suppose I’m superstitious and don’t want to give too much away at this point. Or maybe I’m chicken. Try not to judge.

    Back to that email. It was from a publishing professional who read the full manuscript and wrote an exceedingly nice email saying that Thrown showed promise, and would I be willing to revise it and resubmit?

    To which I reply: HELLS YEAH!

    And I don’t even say “Hells yeah” in my everyday speech. Like, ever. Which is how you can tell how important this is to me.

    As a result, I’m going to stop revising Love in the Time of Colic and go back to my firstborn. I have work to do, to be sure, and it won’t be easy, but I’m rolling up my figurative shirtsleeves (it’s cold here in Aspen, so there will be no literal rolling up of any sleeves) and digging in. I have no doubt I’ll make it better, I just hope I make it better ENOUGH.

  • Go buy this and read it!

    My friend Ashley March’s second novel, ROMANCING THE COUNTESS, hit bookshelves and ebook sales sites on Tuesday. I’m new at having friends who write books, and I have to say, I love it. I was genuinely thrilled for Ashley, who is a lovely person and a terrific writer. I admit that although I am busily reading THE HELP for my book club meeting next week—I read at a pace that can only be described as glacial—I’ve been simultaneously sneaking peeks at Ashley’s book. Such are the perils of reading on a Nook, as I merely have to touch the screen and PRESTO! a different book appears. I have since beaten my wandering eyes into submission and am completely committed to finishing THE HELP before reading any more of Ashley’s book. No really, I am. Honest. No matter how tempting Ashley’s prose… Probably.

    Transmission of...something Soviet?

    Curiously, my car is helping out on this. It started leaking transmission fluid not long ago, so it’s in the shop all weekend long. ALL WEEKEND. I’m too cheap to rent a car, and public transportation in suburban Denver, by and large, sucks, especially on weekends. As a result, by rights I ought to get a ton of reading and writing done this weekend, as I am essentially on house arrest. (My bike’s tires are flat. Which I’ve been meaning to correct all summer. Oops.) Oh and my husband has rehearsals, so he’s no help whatsoever. But thanks to him I now know the harmony to more Sondheim songs from “Assassins,” so that’s a bonus.

    A visual metaphor for my plot knot.

    Good thing I have all this quality time at home, because I’m struggling with the beginning of my second book, LOVE IN THE TIME OF COLIC. I thought I had it all figured out in the first draft, but then I read it over, and it needs some help. NOT that I didn’t expect to have to revise it, for heaven’s sake. But I’ve been pondering this for some time. My car helped with this last evening when I walked home from the park-n-ride because I had to take the train and the bus home from work. (Side note: I worried about this walk, even though it’s in a friendly suburb bursting with chain restaurants, on a major road with sidewalks as wide as freeways. I am so suburbanized! When I was in New York, I walked everywhere, walked home all the time. It took me an hour last night—the same amount of time it used to take me in Manhattan to walk home! And yet, last night I felt I should have been awarded a medal when I got to my cul-de-sac. What a wuss I have become!) I had that hour to think about my book and the plot and the opening, which helped. Still don’t feel like I’ve nailed it, but now I’m to the point where I just throw those plotorial (NOT a real word) spaghetti noodles at the wall and see which ones stick. Ah, my love/hate relationship with writing. It’s mostly love, but I’m feeling some unwelcome attitude from my story right about now.

    And as always, thank you for your support!