Introspections of a Quixotic Butterfly

Hello Friends,

You know those flighty free spirits who flutter from job to job and all of the responsible people around them are whispering, “What a scatterbrain! Doesn’t she have any goals? A life’s purpose? Determination and drive? How can she just moon about, star struck in her own imagination?” I was that judgy person for a long time- the one having those thoughts about starving artists. And then, in a weird twist of fate, and a huge dose of humility, here I am on the other side of the fence.

For those of you who know me, you know I’ve dreamt of being an author since I was seven years old. But I never had the brass to go after such a vulnerable, dodgy pursuit. Instead, I began blogging in my thirties as a writing outlet. And then, a few years later, my stepfather suddenly passed away, leaving me devastated and raw. It changed me- and not in good ways. In addition, I lost my ability, my desire to write. Writing has always been my First Love, but I couldn’t see my way clear back to it. Not for five years.

And then… I left my job as a commission accountant. I decided to open a dog walking business. I did so because I love animals, and because I wanted to be in charge of my own employment. It seemed like a great idea. My family and friends were amazingly supportive and encouraging and I met the most kind and compassionate clients along the way. The local newspaper did a story on my company and that’s when the long lost writing bug returned home to my heart. My interview with the newspaper editor had been conducted via email rather than in person and I had the best time penning my answers, playing with words, being creative in my responses. It was glorious… which I know makes me such a super nerd, but I was so happy to be writing again, even in such an abstract way.

As I settled in to my new life as a pet sitter I quickly realized walking dogs was wonderful, yes, but it didn’t necessitate any brain power. Because my mind wasn’t constantly engaged in some stressful do-or-die deadline, I was growing dissatisfied with the lack of mental stimulation in my new career of choice. Last year, when I fully realized all of this, I decided to put my resume into circulation so I could re-enter the challenges of a corporate labyrinth. But before I did so, it occurred to me that maybe I should try my hand at writing a book- the one thing I’ve wanted to do since I was a little girl. Writing a book would occupy my mind when I wasn’t walking dogs- it would give my brain something to chew over, to get lost in.

I was ready to embrace my First Love again.

I hired an author coach (a beautiful soul with a Herculean tolerance for my histrionical neurosis), and I began writing my first novel. That was a year and a half ago and I finished my lengthy first draft last month on September 28th. Editor #1 and Editor #2 received the first ten pages of my manuscript a few weeks before the entire beast (did I mention it’s 144,000 words- eek!) was sent to Editor #3. Editor #3 is VERY nice. Editor #3 might decide to take up drinking by the time she’s weeded through my maze of storylines, my messy cast of characters, several open door sex scenes and a humorous paragraph or two about a goat named Steve (Steve and the sex scenes are UNRELATED, just to clarify).

Anyway, my book, tentatively titled “Faithful Lies”, should be available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble by Spring 2019. Whether the novel is good, bad or ugly is yet to be judged in the court of public opinion, but my first book will always be magical in that it’s the culmination of a lifelong dream. Seven year old Chelly Bosworth has gotten her wish.

I’m an author.


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