I recently was perusing Susie’s website. One by one I flipped through each of her novels, thinking how good this one was or how I’d need to grab that one on Amazon.  Then it hit me. I could actually tell the entire writer’s journey using just her titles! So…

When I decided to become an author of fiction, how could I realize it would be Nothing but Trouble, a wolf In Sheep’s Clothing waiting to devour me. But, after a trip to Office Depot for a new laptop and a month’s paycheck worth of office supplies, I’d reached the Point of No Return and knew I’d fallen Hook Line and Sinker in my new life.

No one would understand so I had to keep it under wraps, an Undercover Pursuit. My Foolish Heart fell hard for my new dream to be an author and I just knew the New York’s Times Best Seller list and I would be The Perfect Match.

How was I to know I was Licensed for Trouble? In fact, after two shots of espresso at midnight, I was facing Double Trouble. Hammering away at the keyboard so hard it woke my husband, he lifted his droopy head and mumbled, “Chill out Josey. Can’t you write somewhere else besides our bedroom?” I looked at him in disbelief before shouting, “Baby, it’s Cold Outside!”

But it was too late. I was already headlong in Mission Out of Control. I knew I needed to Escape to Morning but I still had word count. And I was way behind. Did I dare Expect the Sunrise? I continued typing, and Waiting for Dawn and dreading the moment it would come.

Finally, after eating four Great Christmas Bowls of popcorn with double butter, I typed “The End”. My husband walked by tying his tie and said, “Finally, I can see at least The Shadow of Your Smile returning.”

 Now I faced getting an agent to accept my masterpiece. So, I drafted my letter:

Dear Darling Agent,

You Don’t Know Me, but if you’ll just Take a Chance on Me, I’m sure we’ll soon be Tying the Knot and we’ll have a wonderful partnership, living Happily Ever After in the world of publishing.

Suddenly, I imagined the fledgling agent opening her inbox only to find the lone email from me and she began to cry. Between sobs, she could only manage, “It Had To Be You”.

So, as the Sands of Time sifted through the hour glass, I deleted the email, the manuscript and returned the unused office supplies. Stopping at Starbucks for a vente latte, I pondered what I’d done. I was so distaught, I knew I needed medical attention. Good thing I had Florence Nightingale on speed dial. I vowed that once I recovered from the trauma of being a writer, I’d take an oath of readership, never to put words on the page again.

Until tonight…