Follow-through

My name is Mel and I have a problem with follow-through.

Hi, Mel!

I'm 39 years old and for the very first time in my life, I set out to do something and accomplished it. When hurdles came between me and my goal, I found a way to knock them down or go around. I didn't let naysayers get the best of me. I refused to listen to the voice in my head who said repeatedly, "You can't do this." I pushed. And I busted my ass. And I did it.

I published a book.

Is it a best-seller? I don't know. I don't even care right now. All I care is that I did it. I did something that I've wanted to do my entire life and I followed through with it until the end. It wasn't without help from others, of course. Encouragement, support and physical assistance through some of the tougher parts, but dammit, I did it. It's my moment to celebrate, so if you'll excuse me for just a moment...

Cheers, bitches!

Thirty-nine

In an hour, I turn thirty-nine. That's a lot of cakes, birthday candles and parties since this first birthday in 1975. I still love cakes. And birthday parties. And presents. But I don't get too many of those these days and that's all right, I guess.

Mom always made the biggest deal about birthdays. She threw me a party every year. Many of you may remember the slumber party I had in 1982. 

And 1983.

 

 

And 1984.

My mother was a brave soul, lemme tell you. After my 8th birthday, she swore she'd never throw another slumber party with that many kids again and she stayed true to her word.  

I did have a 50's theme birthday one year and a swimming party the next. Mom was always good about making me feel special on my birthday. I miss that. I'm sorry to say I don't make big deals out of my kids' birthdays. We'll have parties every once in a while, but for the most part, a special dinner and cake is about all we do.

The thing is, for as great as all those birthdays were, it's the every day I cherish the most. It's laughing at the goofiness my kids come up with. It's crying over their sentimentality. It's enjoying their stories and company. It's having all the kids meet up with us at Buffalo Wild Wings and having a good time. It's listening to them interacting when they think I'm not paying attention. It's not about the birthday candles or the cake or the presents. 

Scratch that. It's TOTALLY about the cake, too - ice cream cake from DQ, thankyouverymuch.

But mostly, it's about enjoying the company of my family.

And I gotta say, 39 is looking pretty awesome.

Sneak Peek at Distance and Time

Sleepless nights. Writer's block. Rewrite after rewrite. It's been a long time coming, but I am so excited to announce Distance and Time is officially on the way!

            Carlene Cooper was your average teenager. Average, that is, except for her relationship with Josh McCarthy, member of teen mega-group, South Station Boyz. Young love blossomed at a chance meeting when Carly was a senior in high school and Josh was just discovering what stardom really meant. Despite their chemistry, it was no surprise to anyone when their very different lives took very different paths a few months down the road.
          Years later, their paths cross again, and they must decide if the spark they felt back then is strong enough to rekindle. Josh has built a name for himself in show business, but Carly, too, has planted roots as a journalist in New York City. Will they be able to successfully merge their lives and overcome the obstacles that drove them apart a decade earlier?
          Just as she comes to the decision that will change their lives one way or the other, Detective Trey Foster enters her life unexpectedly, and Carly is faced with another choice. Will she choose the man she's spent her whole life loving, or will she push it aside for a chance at happiness out of the spotlight?

 

July 16th, 2013, I will be releasing my debut novel Distance and Time, the first book in the Time After Time trilogy. It will be available through Kindle, Nook and other digital formats, and, for those who prefer a physical book, it will also be published in paperback. I'll post the links for purchase as soon as they're available, but it should be available through all the same means you purchase books now.

As an independent author, I need your help. Whereas most authors have an agent and publisher to help market their book, I am my marketing team. But, I have what those authors don't have: YOU! You are my most important asset when it comes to word-of-mouth advertising and online reviews. I'm sharing the first chapter of Distance and Time here and, if you like it, I'm hoping you'll share it with others. When the book is released on July 16th, I'm asking you to read it then go online and review it at sites like Amazon and Goodreads.

Without further ado, I give you Distance and Time:

Chapter 1

July 2003

            I gasped as my driver blasted his horn and slammed on the brakes sending me, my bag and my cell phone careening toward the Plexi-glass partition.  It was the third time we’d been cut off in less than two blocks. I adored living in Manhattan, but the traffic was murder. I despised city traffic. I used to despise cities, in general. How I ended up in the biggest city in the country still baffles me.

            I am from a small Minnesota town just outside Minneapolis, where I was headed in exactly two-and-a-half hours, provided I didn’t get smeared across 3^rd Avenue first. Another cab nearly sideswiped us, and I held my breath again. My nerves were shot, and we weren’t even out of the city yet. I scrambled to gather my belongings from the floor and stuff them back into my purse.

            “Damn it! Watch where you’re going!” The cabby combined a verbal lashing with a blare of his horn again, though we both knew the offending driver wouldn’t hear him or the horn. Everybody honked his horn in this city. It was second only to breathing. In fact, if one listened closely, there was a melodious rhythm to horn-honking, each horn having its own tone of voice. A series of quick beeps could be perceived as friendly encouragement to merge ahead of someone while a long blast indicated impatience or frustration. This horn was definitely the latter.

            This trip to Minneapolis was not my idea, but since my broken engagement in May, my best friend Alejandro had been hounding me to snap out of my depression and visit him. He apparently believed that catching up with old classmates at our ten-year reunion would help me do that. He was mistaken –- I needed far more than that to fix what was wrong, but I humored him anyway. And by “humored him,” I mean that I let him buy my plane ticket and pay for my hotel room for the weekend. I suspected he would also be picking up my liquor tab, too.

            Traffic began to move again, and I settled back into my seat, my thoughts quickly drifting to my high school years. While school itself wasn’t bad, the relationship with my parents was shaky at best, so I was more than ready to leave town by the time my senior year came about. I researched colleges nationwide, even the University of Hawaii –- whatever it took to get as far away from home as possible. That was my goal: to escape. My guidance counselor reminded me daily that the only way to get into a decent school was to get good grades and be involved in as many extra-curricular activities as possible.  I did as much as I could so my bases were covered, but I focused primarily on the activities that would look best on my college applications, like editing the school newspaper and participating in speech and debate. My stepfather made it blatantly clear he wasn’t paying a dime for my schooling. “If you want it bad enough, you figure out how to pay for it,” he said. So I did.

            Four years later with a degree from NYU in my hand and my whole life head of me, I rented my first grown-up apartment. While small, it was clean and in a safe neighborhood just a few blocks from Columbus Circle. I loved it, and it suited me perfectly. I was one of the few single women in New York who could afford to live in Manhattan without a roommate or a sugar daddy. That didn’t come without a price, though. I had run into my soon-to-be landlord at Starbucks –- literally –- just a few weeks before I had to give up my student housing. Ira Goldman was a sweet, small-framed Jewish man, and I hadn’t seen him when I turned around too quickly in the crowded coffee shop. He ended up wearing my latté. I begged forgiveness, and he gave it to me, but not before he introduced me to his son, Eli –- who was a not-so-sweet, not-so-small-framed Jewish boy –- and guilted me into a date with him. I barely made it through the date with Eli, whom I would liken to a whiney octopus, but I did manage to land a great one-bedroom apartment out of the deal. Six years later, Ira still charges me half the rent he does the other tenants because he’s convinced someday I’ll convert to Judaism and marry Eli.

***

            Another car horn jolted me back to the present. An impatient driver behind us motioned to move out of his way. My driver glanced in the rear-view mirror but dismissed his impatience with a shrug. His indifference was returned with some foreign hand gesture –- probably Italian –- of which I’m certain I didn’t want to know the meaning. I definitely hated big city traffic. This little vacation would do me some good. My stress levels were high. Deadlines were constant, and I had to frequently remind myself that writing was my passion and not the tedious job it often became. I blindly reached into my handbag and dug around for my container of Tums, shaking a couple out and popping them into my mouth. I was sure I was getting an ulcer.

            Going to the class reunion didn’t remotely interest me, and while I debated not going, I couldn’t avoid home forever. As a rule, I didn’t believe in regrets and had never wished I’d done anything differently, but I suppose I had to face my demons at some point. I’d faced my biggest demon –- my stepfather, at my mother’s funeral in 1995, but other than that, I’d avoided home for the most part, offering one excuse after another why I couldn’t join my siblings for the holidays or other special occasions.

            Alejandro was the only reason I was going to this reunion. He didn’t really give me an option. “We’re both fucking fabulous! You’re published. I work for the Chicago-fucking-Bulls. We’re going if for no other reason than bragging rights. Pack your shit!”

            I’d known Alejandro since junior high. His family moved to our little town when Alex and I were in seventh grade. In our town of 1,500 people, he and his family were the only Hispanics. Needless to say, in a world of pasty-white Minnesotans, he stuck out in the crowd. He’d been teased mercilessly by our classmates, first for his heritage and then, in high school, for his sexuality. Our friendship started out of pity; I won’t lie. But we soon forged a strong bond. He was my best friend in high school, and now, years later, he’s still my best friend. We had gone through everything together. He was there for me when my first boyfriend broke my heart. I was there when his did. He was there when I stood up to my parents about moving to New York my senior year. I was there for him when he came out to his family the same year. To say we’d been through Hell and back was a mild understatement. If best friends could be soul mates, this man was mine.

            Even now, with eight-hundred miles separating us, we stayed in touch. In college, we’d begun our traditional “Friends Night” every Thursday. We’d watch Friends, then one of us would call the other, depending on whose week it was to foot the long-distance bill, and catch up for the next two hours.

            Alejandro wasn’t far off the mark about us being fabulous, actually. If the alumni newsletters were to be believed, we were more successful than most of our classmates. I worked for one of the most circulated papers in the nation, and I lived in one of the greatest cities in the world. It would be fun to act a little haughty, I thought. And really? It wasn’t much of a stretch for me these days. I’d always felt like I was too good for the simplistic, slower lifestyle of the Heartland and wanted more. I considered myself an East Coaster within ten minutes of stepping onto New York concrete. I snipped many of my Midwestern roots as quickly as possible, wanting to distance myself from everything I’d grown up with. If truth be told, other than the occasional e-mail or phone call, I had cut ties with almost everyone back home. I moved on and outgrown so many people I’d once called friends. Alex and I were very much alike in that respect, which is what had cemented our friendship all those years ago.

***

            The cab finally pulled up in front of the terminal at LaGuardia, and I went inside. I checked my suitcase, waited my turn to be molested by Homeland Security, then headed to my gate and waited. I sucked back half a bottle of water and downed two Dramamine. I didn’t usually get sick when flying, but I hadn’t felt good for a few days and hoped it would help. Between my anxiety over the reunion and the deadlines at work that had me running on empty, I had been burning the candles at both ends for quite a while now.

            I pulled out the yearbook I’d put in my carry-on, flipping through it and smirked at Alejandro’s signature inside the back cover. He had filled it with random memories in the form of a top-ten list –- typical Alejandro: lists and summaries. He had always been OCD like that. God love him. I was looking forward to seeing him again.

            I thought back on our friendship and random memories filled my head: sophomore year and the argument over which one of us could have the tall, quiet one from our favorite boy band (He won, of course, because he’d read in some tabloid that they batted for the same team. “You’re not even his type!” he said. Who could argue with solid logic like that?); Junior year when he lent me his cardigan because I forgot it was picture day for the yearbook and hadn’t worn dress clothes; Senior year when I told him I’d been accepted to NYU, and we spent the entire weekend holed up in his room eating ice cream and lamenting how we’d never see each other again (even though we both knew we’d talk every day on the phone). Although we weren’t as close as we once were –- the distance between Chicago and New York caused much of that drift between us –- I still considered Alejandro my best friend.

            The loudspeaker boomed with the boarding announcement for my flight. I stuffed the yearbook back in my bag, handed the attendant my ticket and made my way down the jet bridge. I grabbed my iPod and the latest Cosmo from my bag before I tucked it in the overhead luggage compartment and settled into my first class seat, a luxury I refused to compromise on, at least for this particular trip. The complimentary (and much-needed) liquor was worth the price of the ticket. Within a half-hour, we were soaring down the runway and lifting into the sky. When we reached cruising altitude, I tucked the magazine away, stuck my headphones on my ears and turned on my mp3 player. I filled an entire playlist with songs from the 80’s and 90’s, and I couldn't hold back that nostalgic lump in my throat as their song came on. I forgot they were ever that young…that any of us were. I was immediately transported back to high school.

The Calm Before the Storm

It's not many authors who get the chance to take a month off from their lives to go on a writing sabbatical before their first book is published. In fact, there aren't many people in general who get to take a month off from life. Given the chaos in my life over the last year, I feel especially blessed to be able to do this.

I recently touched base with a couple of friends of mine -- one in the writing world and one who is a former PR person -- who gave me some priceless advice on launching my book later this summer. So while I'm technically supposed to be spending much of my vacation writing, I'm also using this time to reach out to those who have been valuable assets to me during this writing phase. 

As a reader, I never truly appreciated the work that goes into writing a book, much less getting one ready for publication. My job consisted of buying the book and inhaling it as quickly as possible, then waiting impatiently for the next book. I had no idea what went on behind the scenes. Up until recently, most authors had an agent and a publisher to take care of all the details. But, in this world of self-publishing that so many authors are entering lately, the hard work is up to the authors themselves. Being a rookie in this field, it's even tougher because I don't have a lot of people who've gone before me to pave the way. I have numerous author friends, but as I mentioned, most went the traditional path. I'm sure I will screw up at some point -- at many points, probably -- but that's all part of learning the process I suppose. 

All I know is that I'm enjoying all of it, despite how overwhelmed I feel at times. I can't wait to get Distance and Time into the hands of my readers so you can fall in love the characters as much as I have. I think maybe I'm even more excited because every minute of the process is in my hands. I am a little nervous, of course, but knowing that I'm in control of each step of this book helps me appreciate the process that much more. 

Be sure to follow me on Twitter at @Mel_Henry for the latest book updates. If you're less of a Twitter person and more of a Facebook person, you can find me there, too: Mel Henry. I look forward to getting to know my readers!

Saying no and setting limits

When I got on the plane last week that brought me to Colorado, I only half-listened to the safety demonstration given by the flight attendants. After as many trips as I've taken, I pretty much know them by heart anyway. But as I sat there waiting for take-off, I heard the attendant talk about the oxygen masks. She instructed us that in case of depressurization of the cabin, these masks would drop from the ceiling and we were to put on our own masks before helping anyone else with theirs. I've heard this speech a dozen times, but for some reason I was feeling philosophical and took it with deeper meaning this time.

It made me realize that I have to stop, breathe and gather my strength before I care for others.

As I limped my way through the depths of depression this last year, I learned many things: about myself, about my family, about my friends and about my faith. If I had to limit myself to just one lesson to remember, though, it would be that I have to take care of myself first before I can take care of anyone else. That means setting boundaries and recognizing my own limits. That's not an easy task.

This oxygen mask thing is exactly that same way. I'd be the moron trying to hold my breath while my mask swings in my face as I help somebody next to me. Hello, dumbass! Put on your mask! Save yourself first!

I've always felt selfish putting myself ahead of my loved ones. To put my own needs first meant I cared more about myself than I did about those around me. 

And that, my loves, is the point exactly.

I've spent my entire life putting everyone else first. My husband. My kids. My friends. My pets. My neighbor. My family. I give them what I have and if there's anything left, I'll take it for myself. Over the last few years, I've learned to take time for myself - vacations, nights out with the girls, dinner with hubby, eating the last package of popcorn without apologizing for it.  But I still hadn't learned how to care for myself emotionally before expending that energy on others. I'm the friend people call when they need a listening ear or advice. I've always been that person and up until now, I've never turned anyone away.

The other night I had dinner with a new friend who is also a therapist and the conversation we had was exactly what my broken spirit needed. I realized that chaos, noise and craziness is overrated and when I'm in the midst of those things, I can't find peace for myself. I'm a strong woman - one of the strongest I know, actually, but I'm only strong enough to carry my own burdens.

So while I hate that someone else is hurting, I can't pick up the pieces for them. Someday I might be able to, but right now my hands are full with my own pieces. It doesn't mean I don't love them. It doesn't mean I don't care about their problems. It doesn't mean I don't want them to get better. It just means that I can't hold my breath while I help them find theirs.

I heard it through the grapevine...

An opportunity has come up for me to spend a month in Denver with my friend Kim. She's recently moved back to Colorado after having spent a year in New York City and is getting settled back in. She's asked me to come spend some time with her while she reacclimates to Rocky Mountain life. It started out as a weekend, but said I was welcome to stay as long as I want to. I've decided to take her up on that offer. I'm struggling creatively and I've been stuck on this second book for over a month. I'm hoping the change of scenery will help break through the writer's block. In such a beautiful place, I'm sure that won't be an issue.

I have discussed it at length with my husband and kids, and I have their full support. Midget has her summer planned out with her bestie, Big Man, too, will be busy with friends as it is his last "free" summer before he graduates next year. Hubby, too, is happy to let me go since he's got his racing hobby that keeps him busy all summer. Obviously, I will miss them and they me, but they also understand that I go where I'm needed and most productive. 

I want to make it clear that my marriage is FINE. We are not separating. We aren't having trouble. We aren't dealing with problems. My relationship with my kids is also fine. Which is why this is the perfect time for me to get away...there aren't any lingering issues that I should be working out instead of traveling. 

I know in the past when I've traveled or spent any time away from home, questions have been posed to my husband about the "obvious downfall" of our marriage, why he "lets" me travel so much, why I enjoy being gone so much, blah blah blah - the list goes on. Let me say this much and then I hope the subject will be closed - frankly, it's nobody's business but my family's as to what we do, where we go or why we do it. But I knew if I didn't say something, the rumors would fly and it would be a bigger nightmare than if I just address it ahead of time. If you are concerned about the health of our familial relationships, we welcome your contact, but if it's to criticize or judge us for the choices we make, we'd just as soon you keep your opinions to yourself.

My thing with Mother's Day

I'm not a fan of Mother's Day. It's no secret, though it may seem like a mystery considering I'm the mother to two amazing kids. I thank God every day for them and that I was given the job of raising them. They're loving, funny, affectionate, smart and I adore them. They remind me almost daily how much they love and appreciate me. I am so blessed to be their mother.

That being said, I don't like today.

It comes down to a few things for me. Obviously, I hate that I don't have my own mom here. I miss her every single day. It makes me think about Mother's Day 1981 when we found my grandmother dead in her home from heart failure. It makes me think about the child I miscarried in 1992. Mother's Day isn't a joyful thing for me. It's like an anniversary of loss. I hate that.

It also bothers me that Mother's Day has morphed into some sort of "Let's Celebrate Women" holiday. Having had a miscarriage, I understand the pain this day can bring to those women who are barren or who have suffered the death of a child. I respect you, your pain and your desires.

What bugs me, however, is all the "Happy Mother's Day to all the fur-baby owners!" and the cousins, and the aunts, and the women who chose NOT to have children and..and..and... c'mon. Are we really going to cheapen and trivialize the pains and joys of motherhood by lumping mothers in with anyone who has ever purchased a bra? or a dog leash? or babysat for a neighbor kid once when they were in 8th grade?

I own pets, too. Love them as much as I love my own children. Grieved their deaths like they were human, but that doesn't make me a mother. It makes me an animal lover. 

Not everyone is a mother and that's fine. Celebrate them the other 364 days of the year. Today? should be sacred. Today is for moms, mother-figures, surrogate moms, mothers-to-be, mothers-who-were, mothers-who-weren't-meant-to-be and moms-who-will-never-be-again. Can we please just have ONE day that's ours?

Such a funny term...

Mental illness.

It's a funny term, that one.

Nobody really likes the phrase. Most people aren't even sure if it's a politically correct term to use. I mean, think about it. What's the first visual that pops into your head when you hear it? A sterile, checker-tiled floor in a room full of people in a sanitarium...one dude is slapping his hand over his face repeatedly...some woman is babbling in tongues to herself...then you've got the guy in the corner playing ping-pong using his slipper. Right? C'mon, be honest. It's what I visualize.

The thing is, mental illness isn't just about people who are clinically insane. It's about people like you. And me. And that person over there. And that chic on TV. And that baseball player with the 105 RBI. And that singer who did the duet with what's-his-name. 

None of us are drooling on ourselves, so let's stop with the uneasiness of the term "mental illness," okay?

I'm sure I can be defined by a half-dozen terms in the DSM-IV, but to sum it up, I have anxiety, depression and borderline agoraphobia. No, I'm not afraid of spiders (okay, well, I am, but more so because they're creepy, not because I'm nuts). It means that I have days when I cry all day. For no reason. Fun, right? And there are days when it feels like my heart is a shorted-out cord zapping me constantly. Equally enjoyable, yes? And the agoraphobia? Remember having that dream where you're being chased but your feet can't move and you're stuck there just waiting for whatever monster your twisted subconscious has created to catch up with you? Yeah, it's like that. Except for me, the monster is the unknown of whatever is outside my door, at the store, in the airport, at a concert, on a ship, at a friend's house. It's a shit-ton of fun, lemme tell you.

But what those things aren't? Is a reason to avoid me. Or avoid talking about what's wrong. I don't expect you to fix it. If I did, I wouldn't be paying my therapist to do it, trust me! But if you care enough about me to ask me how I am, then I expect you to care enough to listen when I say "I'm not doing okay." Don't change the subject. Don't act like you didn't hear me. Don't suddenly disappear from my life until it's "back to normal" (because, let me give you a hint -- it will never be "back to normal"). 

My mental illness is as much a part of me as my great sense of humor, my beautiful eyes or my contagious laugh. Love all of me or don't love any of me. 'cause here's the thing: I already have good friends. Incredible friends. AMAZING friends. Friends who are here for the good, the bad and the ugly. I don't need someone who's only going to be here when the getting's good. If you're in, you're all in. If you're not, then you might as well leave now. I don't need you.

That may sound flippant and even a bit harsh, but the truth of the matter is, if there's anything I've learned in the thirty years I've dealt with this, I don't have the energy for bullshit. Love me or leave me. It's that simple.

Now...has anybody seen my slipper?

Against all odds

I held the stick in my hand and scrutinized it with one eye shut. Was there a second line? Man, I couldn't tell! I opened both eyes and looked again. Still couldn't tell. I looked again with one. Cripes, was I pregnant or not?

I was twenty and not even through my first year of marriage. I wasn't even old enough to drink yet here I was taking a pregnancy test. I was so scared, yet excited, too.

I'd always thought about how I wanted to surprise the father of my children when I told him I was pregnant, but honestly, how could I do that when I couldn't even tell for sure if I was? These tests were so hard to make out in the early weeks.

Reluctantly, I had him look at the stick. He looked at me with a slight smile and nodded his head.

We were going to be parents.

That pregnancy was miserable, for the most part. I was sick from the first month all the way through my fifth. Then, just when my stomach settled down, my heart took over and started kicking my butt. My health deteriorated in the second trimester and by the time I hit the third trimester, I was on bed rest for high blood pressure and then hospitalized for what I finally learned was pre-eclampsia. My blood pressure was high, I was losing protein in my urine, I had retained 45lbs in water weight and my skin was so tight it felt like it could split any minute.

The morning I delivered, my blood pressure was 190/110 and I'd gained three pounds overnight. The doctors had to get this baby out before we both died. I was transported to a neighboring hospital who was better equipped to handle the delivery of a 29-wk old fetus. They couldn't even call it a baby yet.

I remember hearing a nurse in the delivery room say "Bless his heart" and hoping my son was okay. I remember the warmth of his tiny head against my lips before the doctors whisked him off to the NICU (neonatal intensive care unit) and then being left alone when my husband followed the baby. The doctors knocked me out at that point and I don't remember anything clearly until the next day. Even those memories are sketchy.

But I remember the fear our son's young life left in our hearts as we wondered if he'd make it through the night. He'd been put on a ventilator and given a very small chance of survival. Then we were told if he did survive, the chances that he wouldn't have permanent, on-going disabilities were almost none. I remember being woken up in the middle of the night two days after he was born to be told his lungs had collapsed, he'd been given a chest tube and put on a high-frequency ventilator. 

I was still bed-ridden with high blood pressure that was supposed to have come down the day I delivered, so I couldn't even see my baby, much less hold him and tell him he'd be okay. It was several days before I was finally able to be wheeled into the nursery to touch him and almost two weeks before I could actually hold him.

I went from being a kid to feeling forty overnight. I learned medical terminology, how the respiratory system worked, what all the monitors were for and what it meant when they beeped. I learned that I could survive on very little sleep if it meant getting to be at the nursery all the time with my son. The nurses took notes every time they did anything to him, any time we visited or called and what the doctor said when he came in. That binder was three inches thick during the ten weeks he was in the NICU. He survived collapsed lungs, respiratory issues and developmental setbacks.

To say this child was a miracle is the biggest understatement ever. He has defied odds, outsmarted science and shown the world he's a force to be reckoned with. Today, that baby turns eighteen.

My baby is now a man and I couldn't be prouder to be his mom. I love you, son.

My heart's in Boston.

I grew up being a fan of Boston sports teams. In my house, you cheered for the Red Sox and the Celtics and that was it. So, long before New Kids on the Block came into my life, I had a connection to Boston.

As a teenager, I always wanted to visit Boston, but never made it there. It wasn't until last year that I set foot on the ground our pilgrims walked almost 400 years prior. But it took me less than a minute to fall in love with the city.

I'd been to New York numerous times and loved the chaos and craziness of big cities, but people warned me that Boston was different. "They don't like outsiders." "They're not friendly." "If you get lost, you're screwed 'cuz they don't give directions." But I didn't believe them. In fact, shortly before my trip to Boston in 2012, I added "Hug a stranger in Boston" to my Bucket List to prove all the naysayers wrong. 

And I did just that. On Commonwealth Avenue, just a few blocks over from Boylston Street, where yesterday's blasts happened, I saw a kind-looking stranger who didn't seem to be in a hurry and I told him what my goal was. Without hesitation, that man hugged me and didn't let go. I don't know his name. Don't know what he does for a living. Couldn't even tell you where he was headed, but for a minute, he took time out of his day and gave some stranger in a Celtics sweatshirt the best hug she'd ever gotten.

I knew then Boston wasn't the unfriendly place my followers had said it was on Twitter.

And, as I hear more stories about yesterday, the more firm I am in my beliefs. Boston isn't a city of thugs, rude people, snobs or selfish citizens. It's a city with heart and it took a piece of mine when I left last year.

My thoughts are with those directly affected by yesterday's attacks and also with those, like myself, who have left a small piece of themselves in that beautiful city.

Pray for Boston.

Coming soon!

My first novel, Distance and Time, is coming your way this summer!

Carlene Cooper was your average teenager. Average, that is, except for her relationship with Josh McCarthy, member of teen mega-group, South Station Boyz. Young love blossomed at a chance meeting when Carly was a senior in high school and Josh was just discovering what stardom really meant. Despite their chemistry, it was no surprise to anyone when their very different lives took very different paths a few months down the road.

Years later, their paths cross again and they must decide if the spark they felt back then is strong enough to rekindle. Josh has built a name for himself in show business, but Carly, too, has planted roots as a journalist in New York City. Will they be able to successfully merge their lives and overcome the obstacles that drove them apart a decade earlier?

Just as she comes to the decision that will change their lives one way or the other, Detective Trey Foster enters her life unexpectedly and Carly is faced with another choice. Will she choose the man she's spent her whole life loving or will she push it aside for a chance at happiness out of the spotlight?

Distance and Time is the first book in the Time After Time series. It will be introduced in e-book format and later be published in paperback. This book is something I've spent years getting juuuuust right before sharing with you all. I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

Stay tuned for the Publication Day announcement!

Home at last

California was amazing. Ahhhhh. Mazing.

It was typical Cali weather for this time of year (from what we were told): high 60's during the day, low 50's at night. Jacket and sweater weather, but still warm enough to have a few meals outside on the patios almost every restaurant offers out there.

We spent the entire time going at our pace, seeing what we wanted to see. It was wonderful to have a no-pressure vacation. We drove to Malibu one day, spent time in Hollywood another, even made time to see a movie and have drinks with a friend. We fell in love with Burbank and Tujunga. We may or may not be looking into job opportunities. hehe In all seriousness, though, I always thought I would hate L.A. because of how different it is from the East coast and how very much I love my East coast cities, but L.A. surprised us. The weather, the slow pace of it, the beautiful surroundings...everything reeled us in and held us captive.

We look forward to going back again soon. Until then, we'll have our memories.

California, here I come

...right back where I started fr....well, okay, I didn't start from there, but I'm sure gonna enjoy the visit!

It's travel season! Right around this time of year, the bestie and I get restless as the cold air and wanderlust settles into our bones. This is the first year in several that we haven't headed to New York City, but let's face it, it's too damn cold in New York right now. We need sunshine and 70° temps to bring us out of this hibernation.

Iowa's giving us a proper send off, too. We're about an hour away from getting hit with a pretty big snowstorm. I don't care if I have to shovel the runway myself while AM sprays the plane with de-icer, we WILL take off tomorrow afternoon!

We haven't got any set plans yet, which is how we roll. We'll meet up with friends, take in the sights and probably hit the Grove, but with the Oscars going on (a complete coincidence, btw), we'll avoid Hollywood Boulevard, if we can. We're all for coincidental celebrity sightings, but I don't do "tourist" and avoid those who do, so the traps that attract them aren't on our agenda.

This is the first time I've actually felt like going anywhere since my hysterectomy last year. Yes, I cruised in June, but the majority of the trip is a fog. It'll be nice to actually remember this vacation. Don't worry, kids...we'll TwitPic, Telly and document our trip along the way so you won't miss out on the fun. Rumor has it, some friends might join us, too. Been a while since we've seen 'em, so we're looking forward to it. 

Enjoy the snow, Iowa....we out!

This Valentine's Day hype

Valentine's Day seems to be one of those things you either love or hate. Single people see it as a reminder of the fact that they don't have a sweetheart. Couples seem to use it as a reason to spoil their loved ones. Some people see it as a day of conspiracy between card companies, florists and candy makers to commercialize something that should be done on a daily basis. I look at it a little differently.

I've been married for over thirteen years to the love of my life. He's a supportive husband and a loving father. He's always there for us whenever we need him, works hard to provide for us and is my best friend.

And I'm terrible about telling him how grateful I am for him. When he gets home from work, I'm usually busy helping my daughter with school work or trying to get dinner on the table. Dinner leads to dishes, dishes lead to catching up on each other's days (work, bills, kids, etc) and all that leads to bedtime. By the time we lie down at night, we're lucky to mumble an "I love you" and steal a kiss before the lights go out.

After thirteen years, romance is something we have to plan, not something that comes naturally. The honeymoon is over, kids. So when Valentine's Day rolls around, it's the one day each year (aside from our anniversary) when we're reminded to stop and say "I appreciate you" to our partner.

We don't usually buy into the typical Valentine's day commercialism (flowers, cards, candy, etc). In fact, when we got married, I told my husband if he ever spent $50 on roses for Valentine's day, I'd kick his ass. The expense seems absurd. But at one point or another during the day, we stop and take five minutes to send a text or an email. This morning, I left homemade chocolate covered strawberries for my hubby and daughter. It wasn't expensive or commercialized, but it did show them that I was thinking about them and love them.

THAT is what Valentine's Day should be about. Buy flowers, don't buy flowers. Buy cards, don't buy cards. Buy chocolates, don't buy chocolates. It doesn't matter. What does is saying "I love you" to the people you care about.

Oh, how times change!

In September 2011, I wrote a blog about how I had, so far, avoided the growing e-reader trend.

Then, the following January, I borrowed my niece's Kindle on a trip so I could read The Hunger Games trilogy. From that point on, the e-reader drug had me hooked like a junkie. A couple months later, my husband and I bought our own Kindles and the first one was passed onto my daughter. Since then, I've bought, borrowed or downloaded 350+ books.

Guess an old dog can be taught new tricks.