I didn’t grow up thinking I would be an author. Quite frankly, it never crossed my mind. In high school I took one creative writing class and wrote a story about my future life where my husband was an author. We lived in a chalet in Switzerland and he wore a cowl-neck sweater. Don’t ask me why. Today it’s a personal joke with the man I did marry, who is NOT a writer and doesn’t wear sweaters. He says it’s too hot in Florida to cover up in thick knitwear. Somehow, that doesn’t stop me from buying them at Christmas every year.
One evening seven years ago, my husband and I were dining al fresco in Rome when he looked across the table and said, “Okay, now what?” Being the wonderful man he is, he knew I was no longer fulfilled by my role as designer and business owner. Even though I’d cut back on interiors work and was enjoying the balance I’d found in motherhood and career, he sensed that wasn’t satisfying my creative nature. He was right.
That Christmas, instead of a sweater, he and my two boys bought me a journal. Not having a clue what to write, I started to jot down the same shocking and funny work experiences that I’d been telling family and friends for years. First, I turned those into short stories. Then, after receiving feedback from dear friends who trudged through my crappy writing – trust me, it bordered on shitty – I took the favorites and attempted to craft a light-hearted, gossipy tale. I say attempted because I didn’t even know where the comma was supposed to go at the end of dialogue.
After many years of putting all of my experiences into a blender and writing, and then spinning and rewriting, I can happily say I am a published author. Is it Shakespeare worthy? No. Are there shades of Hemingway No. Is it me? Absolutely. By the time I was finished, my writing style had changed. I considered going back to the beginning and reworking the early chapters, and then I decided that they had captured the frantic pace of the characters’ lives in the same manner as I had lived mine. As I plowed my way through later chapters, I tried to spotlight the spirit of leaving a drama-filled path, filled with thorns, in search of a clearer, calmer existence. I am proud to say, I believe I accomplished that.
Now, for the most important reason for this post. I want to thank those who made Complicated…by Design possible. I am incredibly grateful for your support. Words cannot thank you enough…
Melanie for ideas, laughs, input, laughs, rehashing, laughs, reworking and more laughs.
BJ for being the hardest working non-editor ever, as well as a dear friend.
Bridget for believing in me.
Laurie for setting me straight without flat out saying it sucked.
John D for honest feedback and really awesome editing advice.
Bev and Steve for that British touch.
Cindy for not only publishing help, but her brilliance beyond the book.
Peg for unconditional support.
Michelle for telling me that writing is a form of designing, and suggesting that Greenwich is the perfect setting.
Marlene for her patience and honesty.
Rick for being Rick.
Sharon for an artist’s inspiration.
Eric for his creativity and artistic detail.
Of course, I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank my family and friends who encouraged me to write with an open heart.
Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU!!!