I’ve been a jack-of-all-trades my entire life.
While flip-flopping between interests and obsessions with abandonment, reading and writing always took center stage in my life. When asked at age five what I wanted for a present, my heart’s dearest desire was a book I could read by myself.
I’m getting to know this five-year-old and getting to love her. This is the first time this has happened to her, and I’m coming up on seventy-six years.
The thing is, I was born into an abusive family and married abusive men. That’s the truth about me. I didn’t know how to stop the abuse because I couldn’t name it.
Naming it was as elusive as finding a mysterious leak causing an entire house to rot, and it turns out its name was narcissism – a person totally incapable of empathy.
I’m writing a novel about someone like that. A woman who was born into a family looking better than nice from the outside, but having that fatal leak brought into her marriages and life. It’s a story full of life from all angles – love, laughter, and tears. I can’t wait to see how it ends.