When I was 14, I met a boy on a cruise. His name was Dustin. Two ravishing days were spent galavanting around the Lido deck. A dusty photo album of the entire trip probably holds a single image of this guy, but that was the extent of that saga. Although said guy did not meet my 14-year-old expectations for a husband, upon my return home from the Caribbean, I began writing a fiction romance novel about the two of them being reunited one day. The characters’ names were Destiny and Brock; and yes, I was proud that I came up with two names so closely related to the actual names. I assumed if he ever found and read my book (because all teen boys want to read romance novels in their spare time), maybe he’d see the names and immediately know it was me who was trying to find him. It had nothing to do with a cruise ship. Pause while I go throw up over this madness.
Strangely enough, twenty-two years later, I still have access to that 78 page manuscript.
Strangely enough, twenty-two years later, the dream to write a book still lingers. However, the fiction content has since gone out the window and has been replaced by real-life happenings that are normally posted on a silly social media page and a blog.
In the midst of sharing all of my chaos over the many years, I started hearing thank yous from women who were being encouraged by the fact that they weren’t the only ones feeling like life is an overflowing platter they are carrying above their head while rollerblading through a crowded Hideaway trying not to drop everything and fall on their face. When several of them suggested I write a book, I thought hmmm, I too have felt the desire to write a book…for 22 years.
I blab a lot of nonsense. My thoughts ping-pong from one topic to the next and I use far too many run-on sentences to make it known that I understand the exhaustion and chaos of life and motherhood. Brooke Oversharer Butler was probably my given name and it may seem that you know me and my family so well because I’m over here like “Welcome. Come on into my circus. Sit awhile. Stay awhile. Let me tell you all about my dirty house.”
Since speaking to someone a couple weeks about my inability to get straight to the point and my horrendously, sometimes, unnecessarily long introductions (my words, not his), let me get to the point.
I wrote a book.
It’s called Last Nights’ Supper.
You can pre-order it here.
Thank you to everyone who encouraged me over the years.
If it sucks, ya know… just use it for kindling because fall is hopefully here and fireplaces are about to need lighting up. OR…you could just come sit by my fireplace instead of throwing my book in the fire.
Um…okay.
Bye friends.
P.S. Lesson number one on how not to sell yourself…suggest your friends light your book on fire before they’ve even purchased it.