As I write to you from my turret tower, my friend Carrie sitting on the floor with my dog Lola, I gaze out my window at my farm…

Wait, there’s no farm. Pardon me, I’m a bit punchy. I lapsed into Christmas in Connecticut.

I finishing a rewrite, How To Catch A Prince. It’s been a little over a month now. I know some people, who shall be nameless, Susan May Warren, write whole books from scratch in that amount of time, but I am not such a writer.

I’m getting fast but I’m like to mull. Chew. Think. I’m the kind of person who comes up with a fabulous retort or brilliant response to a conversation three days later.

But then no one cares to hear my amazing insight.

I process. Or iProcess. Whichever. I am a Macophile.

Anyway.