I’m going to write a book. There, now that I’ve put it in the public space I have to do it.
The subject of my soon to materialize publication will be my family history, which is absolutely fascinating. And I mean the not-so-sure-if-this-is-more-jerryspringer-or-lifetime-worthy fascinating. Once I publish, I’m expecting calls from both.
Picture this. Elegant London Lady (I’ll call her Elle for short) meets Devilishly Handsome American Soldier (henceforth David). They fall madly in love in a whirldwind romance. The war is over, and now they must either leave their love behind, or find a way to be together. Consumed by her passion, and a sense of adventure, Elle follows the man of her dreams to America.
Much to her surprise and probable dismay (haven’t ironed out that plot point yet) Elle finds herself plopped in the middle of Western North Carolina — home of porch swings, BBQ, and nothing else.
Stay tuned, excerpts coming soon!
I came to an epiphany the other day, I’m going fiction rather than non. I mean, I have the roots of what could be an epic story with a little creative license. And, by going fiction, I can give my character (by which I mean the character who will be the inarguably fantastic me) the happily-ever-after I’ve always wanted! (Which changes on a daily basis, so I’m not even sure yet how it’s going to end. Perfect!)
Another advantage is my family absolutely cannot get made at me for the content. Because it’s fiction of course!
“No, of course Patricia isn’t you Mom! She has blond hair and blue eyes! You are totally a brunette, and your eyes are hazel!”
“Yes, she did get married at 16, have a child at 17, and drives a red Hyundai, but I’m sure that’s a common occurrence. No, of course I don’t really think you’re that stubborn!”
Great, now my mom’s not talking to me.