After recently finishing my 2nd draft (of possibly twenty), I am pretty exhausted by the novel I wrote. Best therapy of my lifetime and worth every sleepless night and pound I packed on. It may never go any further than the friends I sent it to, but I hope it does....

Unlike the full marathon I haven't run, the weight I haven't lost, the fourth child I'll never have and the stack of "to go through" boxes in my garage - I'm proud to have finished something I set out to, to have finished a fleeting thought about a couple I barely know then extracted from and blew up into a million smithereens of exaggeration. I got to laugh, cry, relive my city life, pretend to be wealthy in more than spunk and spirit and feel compassion for a lost soul who couldn't climb out of an unnecessary hole. 

Therapy. Therefore I write.