Midlife is full of surprises. Not all of them are working for me.
At forty-two Ive had my share of ups and downs. Relatively normal, except when the definition of normal changes
drastically.
New York Times bestselling romance author: Check
Amazing besties: Check
Lovely home: Check
Pet cat named Thick Stella who wants to kill me: Check
Wacky Tabackydealing Aunt: Check
Cheating husband banging the weather girl on our kitchen table: Check
Nasty divorce: Oh yes
Characters from my novels coming to life: Umm
yes
Crazy: Possibly
Four months of wallowing in embarrassed depression should be enough. Im beginning to realize that no one is who they seem to be, and my life story might be spinning out of my control. Its time to take a shower, put on a bra, and wear something other than sweatpants. Difficult, but doable.
With my friendsreal and imaginaryby my side, I need to edit my life before the elusive darkness comes for all of us.
The plot is no longer fiction. Its my reality, and Im writing a happy-ever-after no matter what. I just have to find the write hook.
