Heather Huffman's Blog

My father loved me. My father was not kind to me. He grew up in abject poverty, his childhood marred by abuse and neglect. Like so many boys from small towns in the Missouri Ozarks, the military was a shining path to what he hoped would be a better life, so he joined young.

In many ways, it was a good path for him. Daddy was crazy-smart and a hard worker, two traits that served his career well. Although, his stubborn streak did leave him scrubbing a latrine floor with a toothbrush on more than one occasion. I’m sure that same stubborn streak is what kept him alive when he was captured and kept in a cage in Vietnam, too.

Daddy always had itchy feet; he never could stay in one place long. We’re alike in that. Thanks to his time in the military, he saw the world - and his daughters had people in their life of all cultures and colors. Being an Air Force brat expanded my world and shaped who I am today. Growing up, I was deeply proud of those Air Force roots.

As an adult, while still proud, I do sometimes wonder what my life might have been like had my father not been wrestling with untreated PTSD my entire life.

He was a hard man who demanded perfection from his daughters. Somehow, I always fell short. I was too loud, asked too many questions, and generally managed to push his buttons with my very existence. It took a lot of years for me to realize that all of that had less to do with my own failings than it did with the scars on his own soul.

My father was a broken man before the military got a hold of him, but the things he saw—and did—in Vietnam changed him irreparably long before I came into existence.

PTSD wasn’t a conversation in the late 60s and early 70s. Troops coming back from tours weren’t welcomed or even given basic mental healthcare, but rather spit on and called baby killers. Whatever one’s stance on war and Vietnam in particular, surely we can agree that greeting had an impact on these men, their lives, and their families.

With their PTSD undiagnosed and untreated, they were left to cope on their own. Many, if not most, turned to alcohol to numb the pain.

As a teenager, I didn’t know the statistics. I just knew that of my friends, those of us with dads who drank too much and knocked us around a bit, all were Vietnam vets. (If you’re curious, it’s estimated that 30% of Vietnam Veterans have PTSD and of those, 60 - 80% have alcohol use disorders.)

When I was 18, I was a waitress and short order cook at a little greasy spoon diner. I had a random conversation with a happy, well-adjusted vet and commented that it felt like he was the first of his kind I’d met. He said it was because he was stationed in Australia after the war, where he’d received mental health care. I can’t speak to the validity of the statement, but it stuck with me.

My dad never got any kind of care. Not mental health, not treatment or reimbursement when he got cancer from Agent Orange exposure, and no support when years of night terrors and heavy drinking drove him to dementia.

We begged for help from the VA. We were told by one doctor to pray harder, but no real help ever came. The years between his first diagnosis and actually getting him into a home were pure hell.

Every time we’d think we’d found all of the guns, he’d find or buy another. You’d know you missed one when he started shooting at you for being a stranger on his lawn. And, may I just say, it’s a special kind of triggering to try to take car keys away from the man who once dangled you by your throat over a flight of stairs.

He’d get so drunk he couldn’t walk and then get into that pickup truck and try to drive it home from “the V". That man got in accidents, waived his gun in strangers’ faces, and got away with it every time because he had a Vietnam vet bumper sticker and the sheriff would let him off with a warning. When my sister and I finally hid the truck, we were told by the VA that we’d deprived him of his personal property and had to return it.

We lived in constant fear that he’d kill our mother, one of us, or some innocent bystander. Meanwhile, the VA tells us to pray harder and give him back his keys.

Then he started falling, and they accused my mother of abuse. My mother, who is five foot tall if she stands up real straight.

We couldn’t afford private care and he refused to go willingly anyway. It was probably the third hospitalization and a broken leg that finally got us the paperwork we needed to have him put in a facility. He got out and was found wandering down the highway twice before we got the paperwork we needed to place him in a locked unit.

Even with Medicare, the cost of his care took all of my mother’s income and left her with nothing to live on. By the time we finally got him into a VA home (after phone calls with our senators and the governor), she’d lost everything. There are more veterans in need of care than there are beds for them.

When we asked a VA doctor what happened if we ran out of money before they found a bed, he shrugged and asked, “why do you think there are so many vets living on the streets?”

My dad and I worked hard at building a relationship when I was in my twenties and thirties. A lot of healing happened and we actually grew quite close.

And then came the descent into the hell that is dementia and all of that was stripped away, leaving huge, ugly gashes in my soul. Wounds I thought had healed were laid bare.

I get phone calls from him sometimes, begging me to come get him. Sometimes he says he’s lost. Before we found a place for him, back in the terrifying days of him driving Lord-knows-where, he’d call when he’d get lost and I’d get in my car and go find him. (Or go round up the donkeys he’d accidentally set free…) Now, I just talk to him. I crack jokes that he’s in trouble if I’m the only adult he can find to help. We talk until he’s calmed down. I never say I’ll come get him, but I also don’t say I can’t. I think trying to ground him in reality is cruel and the best thing we can do is talk, so that’s what we do.

They tell me he asks for me. Usually when I visit, he thinks I’m my middle sister because my hair is darker than it used to be. Sometimes, he doesn’t know me at all. I’ve gained weight and I look tired. Half the time I look in a mirror and I don’t know me, either, so I can’t say I blame him. The Heather he knew is gone, and I don’t know how to get her back, for either of our sakes.

That said, I saw him last week and he cried when he saw me walking down the sidewalk with Fred the Super Mutt. From his smile, I knew right away that he knew me. Those visits, when I actually get a glimpse of my daddy, they’re priceless.

I was such a patriotic child and young woman. I still love this country, deeply. But I can’t help wondering, however selfishly, how my life might have been different if the government hadn’t used up my father and then thrown him out like a piece of trash.

I struggle not to let bitterness take hold. After the last few years especially, it has truly been a struggle.

I run a women’s group on Facebook called The Perch. It’s a place for women to stop flitting and simply be. We share jokes, talk about our days, and support each other in this hot mess called life. One of the things we do is a monthly interview called Difference Makers. That’s been a serious step outside of my comfort zone, both being responsible for conducting the interview (which is harder than being interviewed, in my opinion), and going on film once a month because I’m so flipping self conscious about myself these days. (Trying not to be because vanity is never an attractive trait.)

ANYWAY, thanks to a very dear friend setting it up, this month’s interview is with Amy Drake, a woman who truly humbles me. When she lost her son to PTSD, rather than also losing the battle to bitterness, she looked for a way to help others. From that, Aprons for PTSD Awareness was born and in the years following, she’s made and sold over 1,000 aprons to raise funds for those fighting PTSD.

You can see the interview in the Perch and you can check out her Facebook group here.

For the entire month of June, I’m running a giveaway, hosted by BookBetter. Entering is easy, and two lucky winners will get an apron made by Amy and a copy of Saving Jason by Kate Anslinger. Years ago, when I was closer to suicidal than anyone might have guessed, Kate asked me to read a draft of her debut novel. That book left me ugly crying and it, quite honestly, saved my life. It was inspired by someone dear to her who’d struggled with PTSD and I can’t recommend the book highly enough. Seeing how that book has touched others since its release has been truly awe-inspiring.

Regardless of one’s political affiliation, stance on war, or any of the other things we like to square off about these days, PTSD is real. It effects real men and women and their families. Right, wrong, or indifferent, the government is not meeting the need it’s created. We can either stand in the gap, or watch as these men and women - and their families - fall into it.

I, for one, want to take a page from Amy Drake and look for ways I can make a difference.

I can’t be the only one, the only human is frequently so confident and yet so wrong. There’s the whiteboard I was positive would keep me organized that’s propped unused at the corner of my desk. But at the time, I had to have it, or my world would spin into chaos. There’s the man I was so certain I could never live without. My, how a little distance and perspective has changed that particular notion. Or the Havarti and dill cheese I paired with the rosemary crackers thinking they’d be delightful. They were not. Too much. Every flourish needs a nice, quiet anchor. Even cheese and cracker pairings.

I could fill an entire post with my wrongness. Things I was certain would end me didn’t. Others I was positive I needed to flourish became a millstone around my neck.

I don’t like to be wrong. I like admitting it even less. Yet, for all of my aversion to it—and despite how adept I am at being wrong—the world marches on. And I begin to suspect that the only person who gives my wrongness more than a passing thought is me. Everyone else is too busy trying to avoid facing their own adeptness at wrong.

I suppose the bright side to all of this being wrong is it means I’ve tried. My ex-husband used to leave every single decision to me and then hold my missteps over my head. But I don’t think abstaining from life lessens our ability to be wrong. Choosing not to participate is a decision in and of itself.

I was also wrong when I thought I could treat my brain like a Pez dispenser and just keep popping new books out to meet the grueling pace writers are expected to keep these days. A friend mentioned that putting books on preorder worked for her; having a deadline kept her on task. It did the opposite for me. I’d find myself procrastinating until the deadline was perilously close and then panic-writing to meet it by the skin of my teeth.

To an extent, it worked. It was a good year for my books. But then came the book I truly wasn’t in the headspace to write. I put it on preorder thinking it would once again force me to buckle down because I’d promised readers a year ago that I’d write this sequel to Elusive Magic.

To an extent, it helped. I’ve made great progress on it and the entire rest of the story is mapped out. I believe it’ll be a good book when it’s done. But it’s not where my head or my heart are at the moment, and progress is painfully slow, no matter how much I try to force it.

So, because I’ve gotten so much better at admitting when I’m wrong, I’ve decided to cancel the preorder and take my punishment from Amazon. While this series isn’t as popular as the Nora Jones Mysteries, there were a few people with the book preordered who were looking forward to more of Josie’s story, and to them: I am very sorry to have let you down. I will get this written, but it’s going to be one chapter at a time, as I’m working on other stories.

On the flipside, I said at the end of Gator in the Gallery that it would be fall before another Nora Jones Mystery made its appearance. Wrong again, but in a good kind of way. I’m not promising a date just yet because I’ve found it puts a new kind of pressure on the writing process that sucks the joy right out of it but know that it’s due at my proofreader in less than a month, so… soon.

I’ve also putting off writing August’s spinoff series just a bit because there’s more research I want to do. I promise to write quickly and to do my best to publish at least six books a year (which is about six fewer than “they” tell us we’re supposed to write to be relevant), but I won’t do it at the expense of my books or my love of writing.

If I have my way, you’ll see three more Nora Jones books, the first August Ray novel, at least one more installment in the Lakeport series, and Everyday Magic will finally find its voice this year. But that all depends on how well life—and my brain—cooperate.

Wish me luck!

When I was young, I dreamed of getting away, certain I would move to L.A. the first chance I got. Or maybe San Diego. Somewhere warm, with a beach.

I was born in Florida, and even though my parents moved us to Missouri when I was six, I always said I was still a beach baby at heart and someday I’d return. (There was a time when I wanted to be a Marine Biologist, but that was hampered by the tiny fact that I’m terrible at math and science.)

In addition to my love of the ocean, I’ve always had itchy feet. My kids and I have moved more times than I can count through the years. Often, it was due to circumstances beyond our control, but just as often it was because we’d look at each other and say, “I wonder what it’s like to live there.”

Their father was from Missouri, which kept us tethered to this state, even though the kids often lobbied hard for us to pick up and move somewhere exciting like Louisiana or Florida. (Both of which are very exciting if you love alligators as much as my oldest does.) I took them on a handful of road trips, always to Florida because we were craving the beach and I was missing home. It was never as often as we’d like—we were always stupidly broke—but we treasured the times, nonetheless.

Now that they’re grown, they’re scattering to adventures of their own. In that very brief window of adulthood before I had kids, if I got itchy feet, I’d load up my car and go. I wandered the west. Spent a summer on the beach down south. After kids, that got infinitely more difficult, so I’m glad to see them exploring the world before their own lives get too serious.

We managed to have our share of adventures when they were kids, but it was rare we got out of the state. We were just about to move to Colorado for my job when my middle son had his horseback riding accident, which would shape the trajectory of our lives for the next decade. I’d had to be careful with money before. That accident decimated me financially. My son healed, and that’s all that matters, but it did change our world.

It's 2022, and the last time I took a vacation was 2015. (There were a couple of work trips thrown in there or I’d be truly climbing the walls by now.) Every time I think I’m going to get to go somewhere, something happens at the last minute to change the plans. Car trouble, global pandemic, something.

I have an Instagram account that’s full of pictures of my dog at the same park we always walk to. For many people, that’s comforting. For me, it’s torture.

And since the pandemic, it’s been even worse. I work from home now. I don’t go out to eat if it’s too cold to be on a patio (and it’s winter, so…). I don’t yet feel comfortable going to large events. I’ve basically become a recluse. It some ways, it’s peaceful. I’ve done a lot of healing and growing in these past couple of years. I’ve written a lot and my brain races with words I want to write still.

But if I don’t get out of this house—and this state—soon, I’m going to make myself crazy(er).

In just over a week, Fred the Super Mutt and I will be leaving to spend nine days wandering down to Georgia and Florida and then back up again via the Carolinas. The plan is to make a trip each month between now and August, when my number three son moves out. Maybe I’ll figure out where I want to live next in all of the wandering.

Or maybe August will come and I’ll wander full-time for a bit to make up for twenty-three years of itchy feet. I don’t know. And the not knowing is both terrifying and thrilling at the same time.

Gas prices are soaring and there’s a great big question mark over the future in so many ways, but it’s time to start living again. Even if it’s just me, Fred, a starry sky, and the words in my brain, there’s a whole big world to see and I’m eager to see it.

Oh, and if you’re wondering what books I have in store for this year, I’m not making any announcements until I’m a little further along with things. I tend to overcommit, and it sucks all of the joy out of the process. But I will do my best to write about my wanderings and to make some bookish announcements soon!

If you subscribe to my newsletter, you’ve been subjected to pictures of Frederick, aka Fred the Super Mutt. Since today is National Dog Day, it feels like a really good time to talk about him on the blog, too.

My favorite show is Ted Lasso. In a recent episode, one of the characters was talking about the family’s adopted cat and said, “Mom says we rescued her, but I like to think she rescued us,” or something along those lines. It was funny because the sentiment gets thrown around a lot. But clichés earn their place in society for good reason.

I wasn’t looking for a puppy when Fred landed in my lap—I already have a houseful of dogs at the moment (two of them seriously geriatric and a third passing the middle aged mark—and that’s not counting the “grandpuppy”). But I really do think Fred saved me when he came to be part of our family.

If you look back through the various iterations of my bio, you’ll notice that the one constant is “mom to three boys.” That’s been a major part of who I am for the last twenty years. Now two of those boys are grown and the third is in his final year with me (and never home). I went from constant chaos to deafening silence pretty much overnight.

Add to that Covid, my dad’s dementia, my sisters scattering, isolation, job stress, health issues, etc, etc, etc, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t struggling just a bit.

Last December, one of my dearest friends messaged me. He was worried because one of the dogs that had been dumped on his farm just had puppies. He had no clue what he was going to do with a litter of puppies in the middle of a pandemic but also wanted to be sure they had good lives—he didn’t want to just post them any old place to make them someone else’s responsibility.

I knew that here in Missouri, when my sister wanted to adopt a puppy, it was virtually impossible to find one, and certainly to find one that wasn’t a couple thousand dollars with a waiting list. So, I offered to help find them homes and went to pick them up when they were weaned.

His family kept one and I had homes for two more before I ever left my driveway. I told myself I’d take pictures of the last puppy when I got home and would find him his forever place.

I’m sure you can guess how that went.

He slept on my lap the entire ride home and has had me wrapped around his paw ever since.

Fred (or Frederick, if we’re feeling fancy) is honestly the sweetest dog I’ve ever met. He’s a gangly, goofy Mountain Cur mix with at least half a dozen other breeds in there for good measure (including miniature schnauzer, which cracks me up). He’s a perfect fit for me in every way. And he has this joy about him that I sorely need right now. More than once in the last six months, he’s been the reason I was willing to get up in the morning.

Not that he gives me much choice about it. Starting about six a.m. without fail, he very gently puts a paw on my arm to wake me up. And if I don’t move, he nudges me with his nose or licks my arm. He cycles through—always very politely—until something gets a response. And then he just collapses into me like he missed me oh-so-much while we were asleep.

And even though I know my whole body is going to hurt when I get up and I’m going to have to deal with some stressful thing or another because yay adulting, I also know that when I take Fred to the dog park, he’s going to run with such utter abandon, ears flying, legs going every which direction, that for an hour, I’m going to forget the other stuff and things will just be good. Because how could things not be good when Fred grins at you like life is perfection.

And that’s not just me being a doting dog mom. Studies have shown that when we look at a smiling face, our brains release endorphins, which makes us feel happier and calmer. Science also tells us that when we’re hugged, our bodies release oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin, causing us to experience feelings of happiness and relaxation. It improves mood and lower levels of depression.

As a single woman isolated during a pandemic, smiles and hugs aren’t something I get every day. At least, they wouldn’t be if not for Fred.

So, he’s Fred the Super Mutt because he saves me pretty much all the time. (And because the DNA test declared him 17% Supermutt - I know what they meant, but it still amused me.)

I’ve always been a dog lover; I suppose that’s why most of my books have dogs in them. Many times, the dog is a major character in the book (Margo from Body in the Books comes to mind!) But I was still caught off guard by how much Fred has stolen my heart. I have unrepentantly become “that dog mom.”

All of my puppers brighten my world. They absolutely deserve a day to be celebrated. They even got a bit of roast beef for the occasion. Just don’t tell my son. He’ll be upset it’s gone when he goes to look for a snack later…

I started the year with incredibly ambitious goals. I knew they were ambitious even as I shared them with my street team. (And I did warn them as much.) It’s just that after years of being dormant, there are so many books I want to write. And then I got hit with inspiration for yet another series—in a new genre, no less—and things quickly got complicated.

After making myself crazy for a couple of months, I pushed the pause button and reevaluated. In perfect timing, a friend posted something on social media with a much-needed message: It’s okay to write for you.

The reality is that I’ve been so wrapped up in doing things “correctly” this time around that I was pushing myself too hard to rapid release an entire series (or two!) because that helps market books. But there are other books in my brain demanding to be released—and I’m under an enormous amount of stress in my non-bookish world.

I’m in a really weird place personally at the moment, burnt out and weary but hopeful for the future. I’m stressed out but still happier than I have been in a while. I’m lonely but deeply in love with the people who are in my life—and my dogs. I adore my dogs. Everyone needs someone as happy to see them in the morning as Frederick is when I open my eyes each day.

So, in effort to balance all of the things, some of the writing goals for this year will have to go, which just means I’ll be ahead of the game in 2022! Everything below is either the beginning of a new series or part of an existing series. Really, I see these as laying the foundation for a new universe because most of them at very least intertwine. 

Everything on my bookish wish list is still happening, just at a slightly more reasonable pace. 

As of now, here’s what’s making the cut for 2021:

​Tails, California: A Lakeport Romance Novel
Available June 2021 for free to newsletter subscribers
Available to purchase July 2021
When you have nothing left to lose, sometimes the best thing you can do is flip a coin.
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After losing the family business, Eve Bineau finds herself all alone and longing for a fresh start. So, she takes the advice of a song and flips a coin to decide her next step. When it comes up tails, she does the most daring thing she’s ever done: She packs up her bags and moves from New Orleans to a cozy little lake town in Northern California.
Being an outsider in a small town is challenging enough. Being an outsider who moved on a coin toss is guaranteed to make you the talk of the town.
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She faces it all with the help of her new friend, Corinne McTavish, owner of the local inn. Too bad Corinne’s twin brother Callum is so appealing, even if can be a grumpy bear of a man at times. Of course, his mood could be due to Eve nearly running him over with her car her first night in town—or the fact that she’s a total klutz and keeps accidentally injuring him.

Will Eve be able to overcome past hurt and navigate Callum’s pesky mother, small town gossips, and a bevy of unwanted suitors to build a new life in this cozy little hamlet?

Escape to Lakeport, California with all its small-town charm in this lighthearted clean romance that’s the first in the Lakeport Romance series.
Harmony’s Song: A Short Story
Available June 2021 for free exclusively to newsletter subscribers
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Vance and Harmony have long been fan favorites from my 12-novel series The Throwaways. In this short story written as a gift to my long-time readers, readers get a glimpse of what they were up to while Jessie was in Ava during Throwaway. Learn more about Harmony’s backstory and be there when she falls in love with Vance in Harmony’s Song. Body in the Books: A Nora Jones Mystery
Available Summer 2021

Sometimes, owning a bookstore can be murder.

When Nora Jones inherits a dusty old bookshop from her estranged uncle, she moves to St. Augustine to tie up loose ends and maybe learn a bit about the man she never knew.

Only what first appeared to be a heart attack turns out to be murder, and there’s no shortage of suspects. The detective assigned to the case might be handsome and charming, but Nora’s convinced he’s chasing down the wrong lead.

With her newly-inherited Greyhound named Margo and a quirky band of friends in tow, Nora decides to track down the killer herself. She finds herself in a race to solve the murder before she becomes the next body in the books.

Body in the Books is the first installment of the Nora Jones cozy mystery series. You won’t want to miss this humorous whodunit that’s being likened to Scooby Doo for grownups.

Everyday Magic
Available Fall 2021

Never let reality get in the way of a perfectly good dream.

Josie Novak has everything she ever wanted: a house by the ocean, a thriving business, and the man of her dreams.

The only problem: Sometimes, reality bites. Living with a celebrity isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, especially when he neglects to mention that he already has a 150-pound drool machine for a roommate.

Having moved across the country to follow her heart—and to open a specialty restaurant—Josie finds herself navigating life in a strange town with her closest friends scattered. Margarita night just isn’t the same via video chat.

Finding a partner to share your life with might be elusive magic, but learning to live with, and love, the human behind the dream is what makes the everyday magic in life.

Violet Sky
Available Winter 2021

Somewhere along the way, Violet’s vibrant dreams gave way to the gray walls of corporate America, and she found herself going through the motions on a ride she had no desire to be on without the faintest clue how to get off.

That changed the day she answered the tug in her soul to spend a weekend camping in the ancient woods of the Pacific Northwest. Deep in the belly of a cave, she found a magic portal to a new world, one she was destined to tumble through.

With her way home closed to her, Violet explores the magical land where trees talk, the sky is purple, and a race of catlike men called Felesans are at odds with man.

Violet was only concerned with whether or not this new land had indoor plumbing; she didn’t expect to find out the people in this strange place believe her to be a savior prophesied to unite the lands. And she certainly didn’t expect to fall in love with the handsome man who offered her refuge when he found her wandering alone in the woods.

As much as Violet would love to make a home in this beautiful new place, there are darker forces at work, forces that don’t like the idea of the people being united.

Can a pencil pusher from Portland really lead a rebellion, forge a peace between warring civilizations, and find love?

I am ridiculously excited to share all of these books with you, so be sure to sign up for my newsletter so you never miss a release! (And, as an added bonus, you'll get extra deals on books, behind-the-scenes stories, and random pictures of Frederick. Because he's ah-dorable.) Subscribe to Newsletter Frederick, wondering why you haven't signed up already...

​I thought I enjoyed my thirties. I mean, the events of that decade were tumultuous, but it was also the decade that saw me publish my first book and realize a dream of owning a little homestead with chickens and goats and whatnot. It was great, my body was starting to show a bit of wear and tear, but for the most part, it was still pretty well behaved. My kids were at a fun age (I mean, littles are cute and all, but they are EXHAUSTING.)  And I felt like I had a better sense of who I was as a woman.

But that did nothing to prepare me for entering my forties. Sure, I grouse about the gray hair, extra weight, haywire hormones, and whatnot. You could take a trip to Italy with the baggage under my eyes. But that’s all just superficial stuff.

I have to say, I LOVE being a 43-year-old woman. I’ve shed the people-pleasing part of me that held me chained in unhealthy relationships and places. Oddly enough, that freed me to be a better friend to the people who belong in my inner circle. Because when I stopped being such a doormat, I shed toxic people from my life. I’ve come into a truer, fuller sense of who I am.

I’ve always been the kind of person to take chances, to dream big and go after it. But there’s been in indescribable shift in me. I wouldn’t say I’m fearless, but perhaps damn close.

Don’t get me wrong: I want to shed this weight. I may not mind the gray hair sneaking its way into the mix, but I’m not one to simply shrug and say beauty is for youth alone. I want to take care of myself and stay active and vibrant and, yes, beautiful, for as long as I can.

But I understand that beauty is not the same as it was 20 years ago, and I’m okay with that.

I’ve given birth to babies. Gained and lost (and gained) weight. Been scarred, inside and out. Experienced great joy and great sorrow. I have LIVED.

There was a time when, like Josie in Elusive Magic, it scarred me to be dating at this age. Men often expect women to look like we did 20 years ago—or they opt for the younger version altogether. But 23-year-old me didn’t appreciate her worth or her strength. She wasn’t a bad person, but she wasn’t as kick-ass as later models.

All of the trials, all of the hard stuff, it’s given me a deeper sense of compassion. A sense of justice. The guts to fight for it.

Often, metals are refined by fire to remove impurities, thus making them stronger. The Bible often talks about God’s work in a person’s life as a refining fire. Whatever your faith, you know it. Our trials mold us and shape us.

Please don’t take this as me saying I’m all that. I’m not. I’m a hot mess. But I like this hot mess a whole lot better than I used to. I’m enjoying life more, too.

There was a time when I feared middle age. But I’m finding it’s a pretty good spot to be. And I look at the women in my life who’ve crossed into their 50s (and Michelle Obama and Kamala Harris—sheros!), and it makes me think even better things are yet to come.
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I consider my new release, Elusive Magic, to be my homage to women in their 40s: their strength, their power, the things they juggle every single day. It’s a celebration of friendship, an honest look at our imperfections, and a call to never stop dreaming. Elusive Magic: Now Available for Preorder Some might call it a midlife crisis, but Josie Novak prefers to think of it as a midlife awakening.

With her relationship in shambles and her career floundering, Josie is at a crossroads.
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​Enter fairy godmother aka best friend Brigitte, offering Josie a chance to make the dream of opening her own bar a reality.  But achieving dreams is not an easy thing, especially when you’re dating over forty and helping friends through the highs and lows of marriages, babies being born and babies leaving home, and all the other things life throws at this group of women as they navigate modern-day femininity.
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Both heart-wrenchingly sad and laugh-out-loud funny, this forty-something coming of age story teaches Josie that being a woman might not be a fairy tale, but it is an elusive magic all its own. Preorder Now

I thought I enjoyed my thirties. I mean, the events of that decade were tumultuous, but it was also the decade that saw me publish my first book and realize a dream of owning a little homestead with chickens and goats and whatnot. It was great, my body was starting to show a bit of wear and tear, but for the most part, it was still pretty well behaved. My kids were at a fun age (I mean, littles are cute and all, but they are EXHAUSTING.) And I felt like I had a better sense of who I was as a woman.

But that did nothing to prepare me for entering my forties. Sure, I grouse about the gray hair, extra weight, haywire hormones, and whatnot. You could take a trip to Italy with the baggage under my eyes. But that’s all just superficial stuff.

I have to say, I LOVE being a 43-year-old woman. I’ve shed the people-pleasing part of me that held me chained in unhealthy relationships and places. Oddly enough, that freed me to be a better friend to the people who belong in my inner circle. Because when I stopped being such a doormat, I shed toxic people from my life. I’ve come into a truer, fuller sense of who I am.

I’ve always been the kind of person to take chances, to dream big and go after it. But there’s been in indescribable shift in me. I wouldn’t say I’m fearless, but perhaps damn close.

Don’t get me wrong: I want to shed this weight. I may not mind the gray hair sneaking its way into the mix, but I’m not one to simply shrug and say beauty is for youth alone. I want to take care of myself and stay active and vibrant and, yes, beautiful, for as long as I can.

But I understand that beauty is not the same as it was 20 years ago, and I’m okay with that.

I’ve given birth to babies. Gained and lost (and gained) weight. Been scarred, inside and out. Experienced great joy and great sorrow. I have LIVED.

There was a time when, like Josie in Elusive Magic, it scarred me to be dating at this age. Men often expect women to look like we did 20 years ago—or they opt for the younger version altogether. But 23-year-old me didn’t appreciate her worth or her strength. She wasn’t a bad person, but she wasn’t as kick-ass as later models.

All of the trials, all of the hard stuff, it’s given me a deeper sense of compassion. A sense of justice. The guts to fight for it.

Often, metals are refined by fire to remove impurities, thus making them stronger. The Bible often talks about God’s work in a person’s life as a refining fire. Whatever your faith, you know it. Our trials mold us and shape us.

Please don’t take this as me saying I’m all that. I’m not. I’m a hot mess. But I like this hot mess a whole lot better than I used to. I’m enjoying life more, too.

There was a time when I feared middle age. But I’m finding it’s a pretty good spot to be. And I look at the women in my life who’ve crossed into their 50s (and Michelle Obama and Kamala Harris—sheros!), and it makes me think even better things are yet to come.

I consider my new release, Elusive Magic, to be my homage to women in their 40s: their strength, their power, the things they juggle every single day. It’s a celebration of friendship, an honest look at our imperfections, and a call to never stop dreaming.

It seems like, on social media anyway, the generations are all at each other’s throats lately. The divisions between Boomers, Gen X, Millennials, Gen Z and beyond run deep. I know there are times I struggle to see things from my own mother’s perspective and she from mine.

After I finished writing Elusive Magic, which I absolutely consider to be an ode to Gen X women, I couldn’t help thinking about how my mother would respond to it. (I suspect it will not be her favorite of my books, but I could be wrong.) That led me to think about the fact that she has three daughters, and there isn’t a weak one among us. I think that says as much about her as it does about us. To have raised not one but three strong women speaks to her character.

And then I thought about my grandmother, with a third-grade education, married at 17. A mother to twins shortly after. She was so poor that by the time she had her third baby, she started losing teeth from lack of calcium. She grew up thinking her name was Norma Lee, only to find out well into adulthood it was actually Barbara Ann. How does something like that happen? Her mother wanted to name her Barbara Ann, her father wanted to name her Norma Lee. Mom was afraid of Dad, but also knew Dad couldn’t read. So, she said, “Sure honey, whatever you want” and then filled out the birth certificate the way she damn well pleased.

Maybe the seeds of my tenacity go back further than my mother.

One of my mom’s earliest memories was of my grandmother running to change out of shorts and into a skirt when Poppo showed up unexpectedly. (Poppo = the dad who couldn’t read and thought his daughter was named Norma Lee.) I could go into family lore about Poppo, but I won’t. They aren’t my stories to tell. Suffice it to say, Grandma had good reason to not let him see her breaking one of his rules. He was a hard man. But that didn’t stop her from trying, from pushing the boundaries of her world where she could.

I never met my grandma, not that I remember anyway. She died when I was one. She and I share middle names. I have her sewing kit on my nightstand. And I have her Bible, with a note in the front that says: Follow this, honey, and you’ll never go wrong.

I’ve always felt a connection to this woman. I do not know her, but I feel her spirit living on in me. The little boundaries she pushed turned my mother into the kind of woman who raised three girls alone (Daddy was in the Air Force, always off on TDY or just doing his own thing.) Once, a hurricane was descending on our stretch of Florida. She’d heard looting was bad on the evacuation routes, so she tucked an ax under her seat just to be sure she got her girls out safely.

My mother is absolutely the proper Southern lady who would tell her girls to fix their makeup and hide their crazy. But she’s also the kind of five-foot-tall warrior who would wield and ax to protect her babies.

The world these women lived in is not the world I live in. I cannot judge them anymore than I can judge my nieces, who live in a different world still. We are links in a chain reaching across the span of time, all the way back to Eve. The same chain, and yet each link so very different, subject to different environments, different stressors. So much so that it can be difficult to remember how connected one is to the other.

All we can do, as women, is our best. We can support each other. Mentor each other. Learn from one another. And, perhaps, show a little grace.

​It seems like, on social media anyway, the generations are all at each other’s throats lately. The divisions between Boomers, Gen X, Millennials, Gen Z and beyond run deep. I know there are times I struggle to see things from my own mother’s perspective and she from mine.

After I finished writing Elusive Magic, which I absolutely consider to be an ode to Gen X women, I couldn’t help thinking about how my mother would respond to it. (I suspect it will not be her favorite of my books, but I could be wrong.) That led me to think about the fact that she has three daughters, and there isn’t a weak one among us. I think that says as much about her as it does about us. To have raised not one but three strong women speaks to her character.

And then I thought about my grandmother, with a third-grade education, married at 17. A mother to twins shortly after. She was so poor that by the time she had her third baby, she started losing teeth from lack of calcium. She grew up thinking her name was Norma Lee, only to find out well into adulthood it was actually Barbara Ann. How does something like that happen? Her mother wanted to name her Barbara Ann, her father wanted to name her Norma Lee. Mom was afraid of Dad, but also knew Dad couldn’t read. So, she said, “Sure honey, whatever you want” and then filled out the birth certificate the way she damn well pleased.

Maybe the seeds of my tenacity go back further than my mother.

One of my mom’s earliest memories was of my grandmother running to change out of shorts and into a skirt when Poppo showed up unexpectedly. (Poppo = the dad who couldn’t read and thought his daughter was named Norma Lee.) I could go into family lore about Poppo, but I won’t. They aren’t my stories to tell. Suffice it to say, Grandma had good reason to not let him see her breaking one of his rules. He was a hard man. But that didn’t stop her from trying, from pushing the boundaries of her world where she could.

I never met my grandma, not that I remember anyway. She died when I was one. She and I share middle names. I have her sewing kit on my nightstand. And I have her Bible, with a note in the front that says: Follow this, honey, and you’ll never go wrong.

I’ve always felt a connection to this woman. I do not know her, but I feel her spirit living on in me. The little boundaries she pushed turned my mother into the kind of woman who raised three girls alone (Daddy was in the Air Force, always off on TDY or just doing his own thing.) Once, a hurricane was descending on our stretch of Florida. She’d heard looting was bad on the evacuation routes, so she tucked an ax under her seat just to be sure she got her girls out safely.

My mother is absolutely the proper Southern lady who would tell her girls to fix their makeup and hide their crazy. But she’s also the kind of five-foot-tall warrior who would wield and ax to protect her babies.

The world these women lived in is not the world I live in. I cannot judge them anymore than I can judge my nieces, who live in a different world still. We are links in a chain reaching across the span of time, all the way back to Eve. The same chain, and yet each link so very different, subject to different environments, different stressors. So much so that it can be difficult to remember how connected one is to the other.
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All we can do, as women, is our best. We can support each other. Mentor each other. Learn from one another. And, perhaps, show a little grace. Elusive Magic: Now Available for Preorder ​Some might call it a midlife crisis, but Josie Novak prefers to think of it as a midlife awakening.

With her relationship in shambles and her career floundering, Josie is at a crossroads. Enter fairy godmother aka best friend Brigitte, offering Josie a chance to make the dream of opening her own bar a reality.

 But achieving dreams is not an easy thing, especially when you’re dating over forty and helping friends through the highs and lows of marriages, babies being born and babies leaving home, and all the other things life throws at this group of women as they navigate modern-day femininity.
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Both heart-wrenchingly sad and laugh-out-loud funny, this forty-something coming of age story teaches Josie that being a woman might not be a fairy tale, but it is an elusive magic all its own. Preorder Now

Today, my new novel went up for preorder. More than any other, this book has been a roller coaster of emotion for me. Usually, my writing process goes something like this: I get inspired by an idea (from a dream or random thought, it varies). I research said notion, think about it obsessively, listen to music that fits, try to work out the ins and outs of the character in my mind, and once I am truly and properly ready, I sit and write. I write quickly and in a fairly linear fashion. It’s rare I know where a book is taking me when I set out. Even when I think I do, it surprises me. I self-edit as I go, so what I hand my editor is often remarkably close to the finished product. (Let me just pause right here to say my editor on this one is a freaking SAINT.)

Elusive Magic has not gone that way even a little. This book has been much more, well, elusive. It did start with a dream, about 18 months ago. I wrote like a madwoman for a while only to stop short because it started toeing up to my own story, one I was still living, a bit too closely. Then I determined to push through. Then Covid hit and suddenly writing a story about a woman opening a bar felt futile.

Any time I write a book, there is something of me in it. In many ways, it’s my therapy. It’s how I work through my life experiences, how I process. The supporting characters are often mish-mashes of the people in my world. A dash of this person, a sprinkle of that person, a pinch of so-and-so’s wit…

This book, however, relies more heavily on my own story than any book since Tumbleweed. The last couple of years have been ones of intense personal growth for me—and that was before Covid hit. So many of those experiences had to be dealt with, processed, before I could move on. Before I could write about love again.

There was a time when I talked on my blog about The One Who Made Me Smile. It turned out that he was The One Who Broke My Heart. Dealing with that, with loving someone and knowing you must move on from them, has been a lot. (You know how people joke about “Break up with Taylor Swift and she’ll write a song about you"? Apparently, break my heart and I’ll write a book about you.)

I know my books are fiction. But my belief in love, hope, friendship, finding joy even in the bad—those are real. So when I began to question all of those things, I found I simply couldn't write, no matter how much I wanted to. This book, written in the middle of a pandemic while my heart was shattered, was my path back to that.

Sometimes, I’d hit roadblocks because I would be writing Josie’s story and I’d think, “That’s not how that happened.” And then I’d remind myself that this is Josie’s story, not mine. (I promise the character Wesley Dryden is a work of fiction: snippets of charm from a man I dated in passing, a mental image of Eric Balfour—sorry Eric Balfour’s wife—and a whole lot of imagination.)

Sometimes, it was uncanny how much things aligned. I’d already written much of this book when I caught Covid and lost my job. And the woman who was half of the inspiration for Brigitte, the book’s “fairy godmother,” was the one who  anonymously stepped up to organize a GoFundMe that got us through that first month when my savings ran out and made sure my kids each had a Christmas present this year. (She tried to stay anonymous. Her elves totally gave her up, though.) Because even as I wrote those early pages, I knew she was the kind of person to go big for someone she loves.

In many ways, this book is a departure from my previous books. The language is a little coarser. There are words I debated pulling out because I know some of my long-time readers might be offended, but then I said to myself: Nope, that’s the word that situation calls for. Josie dates multiple men over the course of the book. She and her friends have very frank conversations about a whole plethora of things, some that might make a proper southern lady blush. (My mother is not going to be happy with me and I will hear about it.)

And Josie grapples with the natural cynicism that inevitably happens if you’ve been online dating for any length of time. I’ll tell readers right now: This book is classified as women’s fiction because she does not get the HEA with any of the men in her orbit.

But that doesn’t mean they don’t have a role to play in her happily ever after because they’re part of the woman she becomes. But more than the men who pass through her life, Josie’s love story is with the women she chooses to share her life with. Her love story is with herself.

So no, Josie’s story is not my own. But yet it is. And if you’re a woman reading this, her story is your story, too. Elusive Magic: Now Available for Preorder Some might call it a midlife crisis, but Josie Novak prefers to think of it as a midlife awakening.

With her relationship in shambles and her career floundering, Josie is at a crossroads. Enter fairy godmother aka best friend Brigitte, offering Josie a chance to make the dream of opening her own bar a reality.
 But achieving dreams is not an easy thing, especially when you’re dating over forty and helping friends through the highs and lows of marriages, babies being born and babies leaving home, and all the other things life throws at this group of women as they navigate modern-day femininity.
​
Both heart-wrenchingly sad and laugh-out-loud funny, this forty-something coming of age story teaches Josie that being a woman might not be a fairy tale, but it is an elusive magic all its own. Preorder Now