Writing this book isnāt just about crafting a quirky romcom. Itās something deeper, something sacred. Itās grief and love braided together, laced with dark humor, and spilled straight from my soul into a blinking cursor on a screen.
I wrote a chapter recently that included a scene with Noraās dad, and I cried harder than I have in a long time. Not because the chapter was sad, but because it was us.
My family. The banter. The absurd jokes. My momās obsession with the Home Shopping Network. My grandparentsā sayings. The echoes of every loud, loving, hilariously Scandinavian gathering Iāve ever known.
Noraās story is fiction, yesābut itās also parallel to mine in a way that feels both healing and haunting. Itās cathartic, emotional, soul-stitching work. Sometimes, I need a few days to breathe before the words return, but they always do. And when they do, they bring pieces of my past with them.
Sometimes, I wonder if this is my comeback storyāa little redemption arc for a past author life that left some scars. But Iām not writing out of obligation or because of some promise made on a deathbed.
Iām writing this because I love it.
I love storytelling.
I love this story.
It feels like home.
So much of who I am is woven into this narrativeāour humor, our chaos, our grief, our loud love. Even my earliest writing self shows up. I remembered recently the first ārealā story I ever wrote, back in middle school. It was set in a fictional town called White Pond, Georgia, in the early 1900s. The heroine was a schoolteacher who fell in love with a mysterious railroad businessman. I rewrote the ending at least six timesāhe died, she was pregnant, and he still died, or they lived happily ever after, and their great-great-grandkid told the story one day. I can still remember their names.
That story only ever lived on a floppy disk and in my heart, but I read it over and over again because I made something. I gave life to a world, to characters, to voices that only existed because I imagined them. And now, decades later, here I am again.
Writing a new town. New voices. New love.
When Noraās dad teases her, or she and her dog have some ridiculous standoff, or sparks fly between her and AricāI laugh out loud. These characters are alive to me. And if this book ends up being read by the world? Amazing.
But even if itās just me and Phil? Thatās enough.
Because it exists. Because itās healing me.
Writing this book is me crawling my way through grief with ink-stained fingers and coffee breath, finding joy again in the most unexpected places. Maybe this is what healing looks likeāwords turning into worlds.
I talked to my therapist about this just the other week. Sheās been with me since we moved backāsince I knew my dadās death was going to break me in ways I couldnāt yet name. For over two years, Iāve cried in that office, screamed, sat in silence, breathed through pain, meditated, swore like a sailor, and dug deep into the ache.
And Iām still here. Still digging. Still writing.
Still healing.
And honestly Iām damn proud of myself.
So back to the book I goāthe voices are calling, and Iāve learned not to keep them waiting.
Hereās a little raw first draft snippet featuring Nora and Edgar, yes, that Edgar. He made it into the book in all his sarcastic, naughty, side-eye glory.
"Do you think you could just do your business? That would be great," my teeth chattered, and I crossed my arms over my chest, shooting a look at Edgarāthe 12-pound PomChi dictator currently sniffing the air like he was tracking the UPS driver.
I groaned. āI swear to all things holy, if you donāt pee in the next thirty seconds, Iām installing a litter box. And you, sir, can learn to use it like a very small, very evil cat.ā
Edgar squinted up at me, unimpressed.
I was not a morning person. That hereditary trait stemmed from my dad. It took him at least 3 hours to become a functional human in the morning. And yet, here I was, standing on the deck in the early hours of Saturday, waiting for my pint-sized tyrant to do his thing. The sky was still dusted with stars, the moon was packing up for the night, and the sun would breach the horizon in a couple of hours. Meanwhile, Edgar was on his schedule. He didnāt care that it was the weekend or that I had begged him to sleep in the night prior.
āI know you did this on purpose.ā
Edgar incited a poof noise at her.
āWell, thatās not very nice.ā
He didnāt care that I hadnāt consumed a medically necessary amount of coffee yet. He didnāt care that it was freezing. He was far too busy inspecting everything. Which was impressive, considering there was nothing to inspect. My deck was bare; it was only two weeks into spring, and it wasnāt time to plant anything yet. But that didnāt stop him. He sniffed the air. He sniffed imaginary flowers. He sniffed the vibes.
I had to stand outside with him because Edgar and stairs were not friendly. The tiny fool believed he was above the laws of physics; he could just walk off the edge in pursuit of birds, squirrels, or dryer lint that had escaped the vent. There were only three stairs, but three too many for Edgarās uncoordinated, tiny legs.
At one point, I had a gate to keep his daredevil tendencies in check, but that plan met a tragic end. One particularly aggressive gust of winter wind sent it toppling over, scaring the absolute life out of both of us.
That was an expensive gate, too.
RIP gate.
So now, here I was, freezing my butt off in the name of Edgarās safety, trying to brainstorm a new plan before my dogās next attempt at breaking the sound barrier. I swear this dog was part cat, burning through his nine lives. At this rate, he would run out of them sooner rather than later.
Also, the little diva was allergic to grass.
Thatās right.
My dog, an alleged descendant of wolves, I had serious doubts about that, couldnāt touch grass without breaking out into some horrid rash. So, he had a special little potty faux grass pad on the deck because Iām running a five-star resort for the worldās most high-maintenance canine.
At last, after what felt like an eternity and probably adding another WTF line between my eyes, he found the spot. The heavens parted, the sniffing ceased, and he at last handled his business.
"Really? Was that so hard?"
He stared at me.
No remorse.
No hurry to go back inside.
Just standing there, tail fluffed up, letting the Minnesota wind whip through his fur like he was on the cover of Dogue magazine. Never mind that I was shivering in my oversized sweatshirt and black and white flannel pajama bottoms, my hair slapping me in the face because, in the Midwest, the wind never stops.
"Alright, thatās enough. Letās go, you little monster. Iāll give you a chicken treat."
The magic word.
Like a bolt of lightning, Edgar launched himself toward the open door, suddenly remembering the urgency of movement.
Unbelievable.
I kicked off my slippers and closed the door, finally escaping the wind tunnel. The warmth of the house wrapped around me like a cozy blanket, slowly thawing out my frozen limbs.
Then the kitchen light smacked me straight in the face.
Ew.
Too bright. Too early. Too much.
Meanwhile, Edgar, the drama king, was busy shaking his fluffy tan and white butt and screeching like a deranged parrot.
"I know, I know, Iām coming, Your Highness. So impatient." I shuffled over the hardwood floors to the pantry.
With the grace of someone who had consumed zero caffeine, I dug into the treat bag and chucked one to the tiny menace. He inhaled it like a vacuum cleanerāno chewing, no savoring, just pure unhinged consumption.
I sighed. "You know, chewing would be a good idea, right?"
Edgar just let out an indignant poof before trotting off toward the living room, tail held high as if he had just won a battle of wills.
"You have a serious foul mouth," I called after him.
No response. Just attitude.
The coffee pot was set to brew at 6:30, but there was zero chance I would make it back to the warm embrace of my bed. Defeated, I jabbed the cancel button and then immediately hit start because desperate times call for immediate caffeine. I realize it is only an hour and a half before Iād rise for the day, but at my age, those extra minutes made a difference.
