From Bestseller to Burnout and Back Again.

Is this a comeback book?

"I'm going to do it," I told my husband. "I'm going to write a book before I turn 30."

He didn’t even blink. “I know you can.” That man knows me well, mostly because he’s seen me get wildly fixated on goals.

When I set my sights on something, I’m stubborn enough to will it into existence. And at 29, in between homeschooling our son and mainlining caffeine, I started writing Deadly Deception—my first full-length novel since the floppy disk days (RIP to those early masterpieces, now floating in the tech ether).

I’d dabbled in short stories and poetry in my youth and 20s, some published, some buried alive, but this book was different. It was a psychological thriller with more twists than a ‘90s soap opera.

I finished the manuscript in four months.

Goal met.

Confetti tossed.

Then…life.

Homeschooling was my top priority, and writing took a backseat. I freelanced for homeschool magazines and wrote reviews, but the manuscript gathered dust. Until one day, I discovered the glittery realm of self-publishing and thought, I can do that.

And I did.

No agent.

No roadmap.

Just raw determination, Google, and an army of talented friends—editors, designers, early readers—who helped me birth Deadly Deception into the world.

It received incredible reviews.

Hit nearly 100 ratings within a few months. And then an acquisitions editor reached out and said, “We want it.”

Cue: me ugly crying into my chips and salsa.

Suddenly, I was traditionally published.

I had no idea what the hell I was doing—picture a deer on roller skates during a thunderstorm—but I moved with it.

I started writing the second book in what was meant to be a trilogy. However, in true chaotic fashion, Book Three evolved into Book Two, and the series leaned even further into its dramatic roots. Yes, it reminded some people of a soap opera. And some didn't appreciate that.

But I grew up watching Days of Our Lives, As the World Turns, and Bold & the Beautiful. The devil possessed Marlena; Stefano DiMera returned from the dead at least a dozen times. Oh, and that Brooke Logan...don't even get me started.

That was GenX theater.

My editor? Phenomenal. She redlined that manuscript like she was being paid by the drop of blood. Deadly Deception was polished. Sharp. Over the top? Sure. But unapologetically me.

Then I hit the bestseller list…right behind the Divergent series.

And then it all went to hell.

Turns out, another author didn't appreciate my sudden success and unleashed their street team to tank my reviews.

One-star bombs exploded everywhere.

I received hate emails from strangers.

One woman said she hated me more than rotten meat. (A line I wish I’d written, honestly.) I forwarded everything to my publisher, expecting support. What I got was: “Well, that’s the life, kid. Grow thicker skin.”

Guess what, I didn’t.

I cried.

Constantly.

My confidence crumbled.

My numbers tanked.

My contract was cut.

Just like that, I was out—with a book ending on a cliffhanger and no plan B.

I eventually got the second book out on my own, but by then, the wind had left my sails and taken my heart with it.

I tried to rally.

I self-published a different book.

But the joy and voices?

Gone.

I was bitter.

Angry.

Burnt out and alone.

And because I didn’t know how to process any of it, I let those emotions sever connections with people who had once cheered me on.

Writing had always been my thing.

Before kindergarten, my dad used to record me telling stories. I’d tell everyone, “I’m going to be a bestselling author.” And I was. But watching strangers tear my work—and me—apart gutted me.

Fast forward a decade.

I’m 45 now.

A different woman.

A different writer.

And guess what? I started writing again.

I KNOW.

Plot twist.

Back in the day, I was a hardcore plotter. I’d map out a chapter-by-chapter outline, brainstorm titles like a lunatic with a Pinterest board, and edit as I went—because apparently, I enjoyed suffering in real-time.

But this time, the story is just unfolding.

No roadmap.

No rigid outline.

And honestly, it feels kind of magical.

This one is loosely based on my life and experiences—so, yeah, the emotional truths run deep. But so does the wildly inappropriate humor.

It’s raw.

It’s weird.

It’s honest.

It’s very me.

And I have no idea where it’s going, which is both terrifying and kind of freeing.

This new manuscript is a rom-com with a Schitt's Creek edge.

Total 180 from my thriller roots.

There’s dual POV.

Banter.

Heart.

Plants & comic books.

Quirky, loud Scandinavian family.

Funeral meat.

A little twist.

And yes, Edgar makes an appearance as his ridiculous self.

I’m about 18,000 words in, and for the first time in a long time, I’m just... having fun.

No pressure.

No expectations.

No agent.

Maybe I’ll self-publish.

Maybe I’ll drop chapters on Substack.

Maybe I’ll build my own site just in case Substack implodes like a badly baked soufflé.

No, I am absolutely doing that. I've read that some writers recently lost everything on Substack, and I need a backup.

I’m writing again—and that’s the win.

Every chapter I finish, I read to my husband. He laughs (a lot), and if it sucked, he’d tell me. That’s why I trust him. The same goes for people I trust; I will ask them to beta read.

They won't sugarcoat.

Zero fluff.

Just real feedback from people who know my voice—and know what I’ve been through.

I’m not the same girl who needed validation or wanted to impress the publishing world.

The industry has changed.

So have I.

Marketing?

My son has a Berkeley marketing degree; he can handle that.

I loathe video, so I doubt I will get into the BookTok thang, but who knows?

I’m just here, telling a story I want to tell the way I want to tell it.

People will always have something to say.

About your writing.

Your life.

Your choices.

Some folks make sport of cruelty online—it’s practically a TikTok filter now.

But I’ve got thicker skin.

I’ve survived more than bad reviews.

Running a small business during Covid/lockdown.

Chronic illness.

Grief.

Watching my dad die, now that will do a number on you.

All of it reshaped me.

So, am I stepping back into the lion’s den?

Maybe.

But this time, I brought armor, snacks, and zero fucks.

And this time I’m writing for me.

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If you’re interested in reading the first few chapters, let me know.

I know, I know, I probably should’ve kept my mouth shut until the whole thing was finished and tied up with a neat little bow. But let’s be real: that’s never been my style. I’ve always needed the support. The accountability. The occasional lovingly-delivered kick in the ass.

The truth is, I’m starting over.

A new voice.

A new genre.

A new chapter—literally and figuratively. And while I’ve been through the publishing wringer before, this time feels different. This time, I’m showing up as a different version of myself: older, wiser, battle-scarred, and maybe just a little feral.

So, if you’re up for it—if you want to walk beside me as I build this thing from the ground up—I’d be so grateful for your encouragement and your brutally honest, constructive feedback. (Emphasis on constructive—I already survived the rotten meat emails, thank you very much.)

Let’s see where this thing goes.