Thinkingdog Publishing

 They always say “write what you know,” right? At first, I thought they meant, “write about your soul-crushing office job and how Alyssa from accounting eats all the good donuts and Rick never refills the coffee pot.” You know, the usual psychological warfare of cubicle life. And sure, I could’ve written a blistering satire on office politics that would make Kafka weep. But here’s the truth: that wasn’t my heart talking. That was caffeine withdrawal and the lingering trauma of HR-mandated birthday parties. Back then, I wrote romance novels. They were lovely, sweeping stories. Handsome cowboys, city girls with trust issues, sunset kisses—you know the drill. People liked them. My mom liked them. The mailman once said one made him cry, though he might’ve been referring to his allergies. But something was off. I was writing about love, but my heart wasn’t in it—which is wildly ironic when you think about it. A romance author without romantic feelings about her own work. There’s a pl...