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This wasn't really the plan...I mean this author thing. I was supposed to be out in the world saving sick birds or helping people laid out on a couch find their inner child. I was supposed to be living in some little unknown town-- like Waunaukee, Wisconsin or Newton, Iowa, watching my imaginary husband play in his imaginary band, with my two kids dressed so sweetly.
Yet here I am in Flagler Beach, Florida of all places, with a husband who doesn't play guitar and kids who choose their own clothes. I am not bandaging sparrows wings or mending broken hearts, but writing books that seems to draw out the inner child in me. Not much of this was part of the plan, but what ever is?