Sarina Bowen's Blog, page 20

This is the announcement that readers of LGBT romance have been waiting for!

Dear Readers,

I have done it. I have written a novel for Kieran and Roderick! It’s called Roommate, and it’s coming to you in January 2021.

Wanted: One roommate to share a 3-bedroom house, split the rent, and ideally not be the guy I can’t stop thinking about.   

I’m a man with too many secrets, so the last thing I need is a new roommate with a sexy smile and blue eyes that see right through me. Eight years ago, Roderick left town after high school. We’re not friends. I owe him nothing. But back then, I let one of my secrets slip, and he’s the only one who noticed. 

Part of me knows I should run far, far away. But the other part wants him to come upstairs and spend the night. But if I let him in, I could lose everything.

Seeking: a room to rent in town. I’m tidy, have no pets, and I will feed you homemade bread. 

I should probably add: Gay AF, and has no filter. It’s no wonder my new landlord is so wary of me. 

A smarter man would ignore those hot glances from the Kieran Shipley. The broody lumberjack wants more from me than another fresh-baked pretzel. But if I push my luck, I’ll end up back on the street.

Too bad I’ve never been smart with my heart… 

Amazon  |  Apple  |  Kobo

Q: Is this a stand-alone?

A: Yes! No prior experience necessary.

Q: Have I met these characters?

A: Perhaps. If you’ve read the True North series, you’ve met Kieran and Roddy at the shop where they both work.

Cover reveal day! Wait until you see him...

Photo by Wander Aguiar

Loverboy is coming December 1!

Growing up, I was the rough guy from the wrong neighborhood who couldn’t catch a break. Posy was the pampered girl I tried to impress. But all she gave me was a single kiss before I had to skip town.

Now I’m back, and the tables are turned. Posy runs a struggling pie shop. I’m the VP of a secretive billion-dollar security company. 

Not that I can tell her.

There’s a murderer on the loose in New York, and he seems to spend a lot of time at Posy’s shop. It’s my job to identify him before he can harm a hair on her pretty head.

Going undercover as Posy’s new barista wasn’t my idea. I don’t even drink coffee. But now I have to call her “boss,” and do everything the curvy perfectionist asks of me. I’d forgotten how much we infuriate each other, and that she somehow fills me with both irritation and desire in the same breath.

There’s nobody more skilled at stealth ops than me. I can bring this killer down. Right after I take a cold shower. And just as soon as I figure out how to make a skinny peppermint latte with milk poured in the shape of a kitten...

Simultaneous audio with Joe Arden and Vanessa Edwin, too!

Amazon | Apple | Kobo | Nook 

Good Things from September

It’s happening!

I usually love September. But this has been the most stressful one ever. Amirite? The summer was pretty nice around here, frankly. But back-to-school is scary.

That said, September had its moments. On the last evening before school started, my fifteen-year-old made a bonfire, and we roasted marshmallows while bats flew by overhead in the darkening sky. And the next morning, I remembered to take their picture before Thing 1 drove Thing 2 off to his first day of high school.

I’m usually the kind of mom who forgets to take a photo. But this is the last year I’ll have two kids at home in school, so I guess that was enough to remind me.

The first apples of the season are in! I’m fond of slightly-underripe Ginger Golds in September. Our earliest tree here in the yard is called Yellow Transparent, but they’re really only good for sauce. (Spoiler: we’ve already eaten lots of sauce!) Next month we’ll get the really interesting varieties.

The monarch butterflies are back. They’re making chrysalises on the milkweed. I see them everywhere. Also spotted: a blue heron, and some kind of chonky owl in the yard. No lethal animals this month. Sorry.

It's here! Lies and Lullabies has arrived at a vendor near you!

Are you ready to meet the band?

Now live in paperback, audio & ebook formats!

See: Amazon | Apple | Kobo | Nook | Audible 

First Chapter: Lies & Lullabies

Plot twist! You can either read or listen to this first chapter on audio!

Listen on this web page. Or scroll down to read Chapter One!

Chapter One: Jonas

Pine boughs scraped against the windows of the forty-five-foot tour bus as it crept along the last half mile of the dirt road. By the time the driver came to a stop outside the Nest Lake Lodge, I was already on my feet. And when the door swung open, I jumped out to taste the Maine air. 

This was the moment of truth. I inhaled deeply, taking in the summery scent of lake water and lilacs.

Yes! It still smelled the same. That was a good sign.

Slowly, others began to trickle off the bus behind me. First came Quinn, our drummer. She stretched her legs without comment. But then Nixon, our lead guitar, stepped down and began to laugh. “No shit, man. Really? We drove a hundred miles out of our way for this?”

“Hey! Trust me.” I smiled at my two best friends. “Nest Lake is magic.” At least it had been once upon a time. And that was why we were here. This detour was supposed to help me remember the last time I’d been truly happy. Before I wrote another album, I needed to convince myself that happiness wasn’t impossible.

“Christ.” Nixon pulled his T-shirt down over his tattooed abs. “Where’s the bar? Where are the women?”

I took a moment to examine my oldest friend, and I didn’t like what I saw. A pale, tired face with dark circles under the eyes. ’Twas the season to worry about Nixon.

Most people looked forward to the summertime, but not him. Summer was when Quinn and I watched Nix for signs of a breakdown. From June till September—usually in the midst of a grueling tour—Nixon would trade his beer for whiskey. He would sleep too much and brood too long. 

It was only Memorial Day Weekend, and already the man looked hollow. Not good.

I put a hand on Nixon’s shoulder. “Think of this as a couple of days off, okay? There’s nothing here but trees and the lake. You can thank me later.”

He eyed the lodge’s low-slung roofline with suspicion. “Have we fallen on hard times? Should I be worried?”

They both stared at me, but I didn’t give a damn. “Forty-eight hours,” I told them. “No TV, no cell phone service. Just put on a pair of trunks and jump in the lake.”

“Shit, I lost my suit in Toronto,” Nixon complained. “That sick night in the hot tub with those triplets? I’m lucky I still have both of my balls. Things got hairy.”

“Enough about your hairy balls,” I quipped. “No suit, no problem. Jump in naked. Or read in the hammock. When the weekend is over, you’re going to beg me to stay.”

Nix twitched, and then slapped at his neck. “Mosquitoes? Fuck. This is going to be the longest two days of my life.”

I’d already begun to walk away, but I turned around to say one more thing to my two best friends. “Listen, team. I wrote seven of the songs off Summer Nights about a half a mile from where you’re standing. If it weren’t for this lake, the words ‘one-hit wonder’ would appear in each of our Wikipedia entries. So quit bitching about my favorite place in the world.”

At that, I turned away. Walking toward the lake, I spotted two canoes parked on the bank, with life jackets and paddles at the ready. I walked past these and out onto the lodge’s private dock. The green scent of Maine was strong on the breeze.

“I only have one beef with Maine,” said a voice from behind me. “But it’s legit.”

I didn’t need to turn around to identify the speaker. Our tour manager—and my good friend—was the only one who could cast such a huge, bald, muscular shadow on the dock boards. “What’s that, Ethan?”

“There aren’t any other black dudes in Maine.”

I chuckled. “I’ll give you that. But it’s just a visit. We aren’t moving in.”

“Color me relieved. You need anything? I’m going inside to divvy up the rooms.”

“I’m good. Really good, actually.”

“Glad to hear it. Dinner’s at seven.”

* * *

An hour later, I convinced Quinn to row across the lake with me. “You don’t even have to row. I’ll do all the work.”

“Hey, I’m game.” She picked up a paddle and strapped on a life vest.

She tried to hand me the other vest, but I held up a hand, refusing it. “The summer I was here, I swam across this lake most days.” I squinted against the glare off the water. “In the morning I’d write. And if I made some good progress, I’d swim and lie in the sun in the afternoon. Otherwise, it was back to the grind after lunch.”

“Sounds very disciplined,” Quinn said with a sigh. “Maybe I should try it.”

“Totally worked!”

Five years ago I’d used that summer to regain control of my life. Secluding myself in the woods had served a couple of purposes. First, it got me away from the crazy Seattle scene. Then, with no distractions and nothing to occupy myself in my room at the tiny bed and breakfast but my favorite acoustic guitar and several empty notebooks, I’d finally written the band’s overdue album.

Not only had that album eventually gone double platinum, I’d had the best summer of my life. Because for once, I’d proved to myself that I could get the job done. I didn’t have to be just another blip on the music scene—a chump who got lucky with two hit songs before fading into oblivion. I didn’t have to be a fuckup. Not all the time, anyway.

Now I steadied the canoe at the edge of the water. “Hop in,” I instructed. “You sit up front.” 

After Quinn was settled on the seat, I shoved off, then stepped carefully into the rear of the boat. Sitting down, I dug my paddle into the water and headed toward the western shore and the tiny town of Nest Lake. After only a few minutes of paddling, the little public dock and the B&B where I’d rented a room that summer came into view. 

It had all happened right here. The narrow door at the back of Mrs. Wetzle’s house had been my private entrance. After a day spent writing, I used to slip on my flip-flops and shuffle down to the dock for a swim. On the Fourth of July, I’d gone skinny-dipping here with my only Nest Lake friend. 

Just remembering that night made my chest ache. No wonder songwriters made so much of summertime memories. If I closed my eyes, I could still conjure the potent, warm air and bright stars.

And beautiful Kira. She was the best part of that memory.

“Turn around so I can get undressed,” Kira had said that night, her fingers poised on the hem of her T-shirt. I remembered precisely how she’d looked, her cheeks pink from embarrassment, her sweet curves framed against the dusky sky.

Even though I’d been sorely tempted to peek, I’d turned around, obeying her request. Kira was gorgeous in the same way that Maine was—fresh and unspoiled. But she’d been off limits. It had been a rare instance of me staying “just friends” with a girl. And staying “just friends” had been another of my summertime goals. 

At the time, I was freshly dumped by my supermodel girlfriend. We’d had the worst kind of pathological relationship, and I’d needed to prove to myself that I could go twelve weeks without relying on a hookup to feel better.

I’d almost succeeded.

Funny, but now I couldn’t even picture that ex-girlfriend’s face. But Kira’s was seared into my memory. Her tanned legs and sunny energy had tempted me from the minute I’d blown into town.

But I’d stayed strong. I hadn’t watched her strip down that night on the dock. In fact, I hadn’t made a move all summer long. Not once. Every time my gaze had strayed from her sparkling silver eyes to the swell of her breasts under her T-shirt, I’d kept my urges to myself.

Of course, looking wasn’t really against my rules. So after we’d slipped naked into the dark water of the lake, I’d admired Kira’s shoulders shimmering in the moonlight and the place where the water dripped down between her breasts. She’d held herself low at the surface, preventing me from seeing much. The mystery had made my attraction that much more potent. I’d floated there, close enough to touch her, while the gentle current caressed my bare skin.

Submerged in the water, we’d watched the fireworks shoot up from the other end of the lake, their bright explosions mirrored in the water’s surface. When it was finally time to get out of the water—and after my brain had invented several dozen fantastic ways to appreciate Kira’s naked body—I’d asked her to turn around while I climbed out on the dock. 

Usually, I’m a hundred percent comfortable with nudity. But I couldn’t let Kira see the effect she had on me. I didn’t want her to know that my mind had been in the gutter the whole evening. Pulling my dry briefs and khaki shorts over my dripping wet body had been difficult with a rock-hard cock in the way.

“Jonas, it really is a beautiful lake,” Quinn said, interrupting the movie reel of my memories. “I can see why you’d come back.”

“It was the best three months of my life. No lie.”

She was quiet for a moment, and I thought the conversation was over. But then Quinn asked a question. “So… Why did you wait five years to come back?”

I rolled my neck, trying to shake the last of the tour-bus tension from my neck. “Because I’m a goddamned idiot,” I said, rowing toward the little beach. It was the truth, too. If Maine had lost its magic, it wasn’t the Pine Tree State’s fault. It was my fault. I’d been too stupid to see what was right in front of me.

* * *

When we reached the water’s edge, I dragged the canoe up onto the gravelly sand. “We can leave the boat right here. Nobody will bother it.”

“Really?”

“Really. That’s how it’s done here in Outer Bumfuck.”

Quinn laughed. “Are you going to show me the town?”

“Of course I am. But it will take about ten seconds.”

I admired Quinn’s shapely legs as she leaned over to stash her oar in the boat. It took surprising body strength to play the drums, and the muscle looked good on her, especially in her bathing suit and Daisy Dukes.

My drummer and I were truly just friends. We’d met eight years ago at work in a Seattle bar. Years ago—when I was hammered on Jack Daniel’s—I once kissed Quinn, in just the kind of dumbass move that can ruin a good friendship as well as a good band. 

Luckily, after about five seconds of stupidity, we pulled back and sort of stared at each other. I’d said, “Okay, nope” at exactly the same time she’d said, “Ewww.” Then we’d burst out laughing, and never tried that again.

Thank goodness, because I was usually too impulsive for my own good. Quinn and I would’ve never worked as a couple, anyway. Two moody artists? That’s just a bad idea.

Besides, Quinn shied away from romantic relationships. She was happiest when she was scribbling music into her notebook or tapping out a rhythm with the drumsticks that she never seemed to put down.

From the public beach, we made a left toward Main Street. “So…” I gestured like a tour guide. “Here you see downtown metropolitan Nest Lake.” 

The only living being in sight was a golden retriever sleeping on the sidewalk. As I began to talk, he opened one lazy eye to look at us. 

“You have your post office, which is open about a half an hour a day, but don’t bother trying to figure out when, because they haven’t updated the sign on the door since 1986. And there’s the soft-serve ice cream place, the Kreemy Kone. Open until nine. The crown jewel is here—Lake Nest General Store—where I ate dinner every single night for an entire summer, even though it isn’t actually a restaurant. And that’s it. You’ve seen the whole town.”

Quinn raised a finger, counting the cars. “Four.”

“This is busy, actually. A big crowd for Memorial Day weekend.”

“Wow.” She smiled. “And your fans are about to rush you, I can feel it.”

Right on cue, a woman came out of the general store with a gallon of milk. She dismounted the wooden stairs, turning away without giving us a second glance. Then she tucked herself into one of the cars and drove away.

“And then there were three,” I said under my breath. 

Seeing Main Street brought me into a strange reverie. In spite of the sunshine, I felt as if I was having a very vivid dream. I’d thought about this place so often, and now I was  here for real.

Crazy.

“I can see why you came here to write,” Quinn said. “But how did you find it?”

“My mom used to come here when she was a little girl. One of the few pictures I have of her is on the porch of the general store.” 

“Ah,” Quinn said. And because she knew I didn’t like to talk about my parents, she left it at that.

I’d lost both my parents when I was seven. Coming back here five years ago was a way to try to remember my life before everything had gone wrong. 

Did it work? I guess. But the cure was only temporary. Lately I’d been feeling just as lost.

Five years ago I’d come here when my band’s new album was overdue. The record label was pissed off at me, so Maine seemed like a good place to hide from their nagging. And my glamorous girlfriend had just dumped me. A tabloid had just run a story about how I’d cheated on her. They used pictures of me with a woman that I slept with the night after we broke up.

I was twenty-five years old and already in a slump. So I’d come to this place my mother used to tell me about. It was one of the only details I could remember about her.

I’d needed some magic, and that’s what I’d found here in Maine.

“God, it’s hard to believe places like this still exist,” Quinn said. “Can we go into the general store? And then I want ice cream.”

“Lead on.” I followed her up the store’s wooden steps, through the screened porch and into the shop itself. What hit me first was the scent. It smelled exactly the same inside—musky and rich, like pickles, salami, and sawdust. And it looked mostly the same, lit by old soda lamps hanging from the ceiling on chains, with half an inch of dust on each one.

What’s more, Kira’s father stood behind the cash register, looking just as grumpy as he had five years ago. The old man proceeded to ignore us both, because he always ignored the summer people. And yet he’d been in business forever, because there weren’t any other stores for ten miles.

Two or three years ago, drunk and in a melancholy mood, I had finally picked up the phone to call this very store. It was a call that I’d waited too long to make, and I’d known it was hopeless even before that surly old man answered the phone in his gravelly voice.

“Is Kira there?” I’d asked, knowing it was a long shot. No girl waits two years to hear from the asshole who’d rejected her. Besides—Kira had always said that she was going back to college after our magical summer.

“They moved to Boston,” the old man had told me.

Right. That’s what I’d expected. They’d moved to Boston. 

They.

Hell, I’d expected that too. Kira wasn’t single anymore. Why would she be?

Thousands of miles away, in a Texas hotel room, I’d hung up the phone and poured myself another two fingers of scotch. But I’d never stopped thinking about Kira. And I probably never would.

Only one thing in the store looked truly different now. And although I’d expected this, it still made me sad. Her sign was missing. Above one of the back counters, a carved wooden plaque had once hung. KIRA’S CAFE. Her homemade specialty had been a quirky little meat pie, about five inches across. Under an artfully cut-out crust lay curried chicken, or sausage and peppers. There’d been a ham and egg version I’d particularly liked. My first week in Maine, I’d tried a different one each night. My second week, I’d repeated the cycle.

That’s how we’d become friends. After I’d eaten her savory pastries nine nights in a row, Kira began feeling sorry for me. So she’d surprised me with some new dishes. I walked in one night to find that she’d made me a big square of lasagna. The next night, she’d grilled up a bacon cheeseburger while I waited. 

As the summer progressed, she’d gotten even more creative. The pan-fried lake trout had tasted so fresh I’d almost cried.

“You are the most loyal customer I’ve ever had,” she’d said. By then, I’d memorized the shape of her smile and the flush of her cheek when I complimented the food.

But I didn’t hit on her. Not once. 

At the beginning, restraint had been easy. I’d come to Nest Lake to be alone and to stop chasing women. I was still bitter about the tabloid article. I didn’t need any distractions. I was going to finish that album or die trying.

But by midsummer, my vow of chastity had gotten a lot harder. Literally. The time I’d spent with Kira had evolved from a simple nightly transaction to a real friendship. And every night I went to bed hearing her laughter echo in my head and wondering how her skin would feel sliding against mine.

But I was young and dumb. At the time, I’d written it off as mere horniness. Five years later, I knew better. 

Well before Labor Day, Kira’s bright smile and intelligent eyes had stolen my heart. And her curvy body turned up in all my dreams. But I never slipped up and made a pass. Not just because I’d been feeling stubborn, but there was something vulnerable about Kira. I couldn’t have told you exactly what, but still it held me back. Banging her like one of my fans would have felt wrong.

Besides, if I’d talked Kira into my bed, there’d been a risk that she wouldn’t make me dinner anymore. And then I would have been stuck with the miserable fare that my B&B landlady referred to as “food.” 

Somehow it had all been enough to keep even a dedicated horn dog in check.

“Earth to Jonas,” Quinn teased. “Let’s pick up a magazine or two, and then I want some soft serve.”

I’d been staring at Kira’s old counter, memories flooding through me. But where her delicacies once sat, there were now only scary-looking danishes wrapped in cellophane. It was no better than gas-station food.

It was true what people said. You can never go back.

I turned toward the magazine rack, shaking off my disappointment.

Amazon | Apple | Kobo | Nook | Audible 

Good Things from September

It’s happening!

I usually love September. But this has been the most stressful one ever. Amirite? The summer was pretty nice around here, frankly. But back-to-school is scary.

That said, September had its moments. On the last evening before school started, my fifteen-year-old made a bonfire, and we roasted marshmallows while bats flew by overhead in the darkening sky. And the next morning, I remembered to take their picture before Thing 1 drove Thing 2 off to his first day of high school.

I’m usually the kind of mom who forgets to take a photo. But this is the last year I’ll have two kids at home in school, so I guess that was enough to remind me.

The first apples of the season are in! I’m fond of slightly-underripe Ginger Golds in September. Our earliest tree here in the yard is called Yellow Transparent, but they’re really only good for sauce. (Spoiler: we’ve already eaten lots of sauce!) Next month we’ll get the really interesting varieties.

The monarch butterflies are back. They’re making chrysalises on the milkweed. I see them everywhere. Also spotted: a blue heron, and some kind of chonky owl in the yard. No lethal animals this month. Sorry.

Seven Years Ago I Saw This Video

And Then I Wrote This Book

I was already writing the Ivy Years books. I’d crafted a rather diverse, cerebral hockey team, and I was proud of it. But then I took my child to a football game at Dartmouth College. And a halftime, I saw this video.

By this time in my life I had dozens of LGBTQ friends. But when that kid looks into the camera at the :53 mark and says: “but it shouldn’t take courage to go into your own locker room,” it hit me hard. I realized that my hockey team wasn’t as fully realized as I’d thought.

Who, exactly, was nervous walking into his locker room?

That’s how I found the character of Michael Graham. He and John Rikker arrived soon after as fully formed characters. (That never happens!) But even as I sat down to write this story, I felt like I already knew them. I already knew Graham’s struggle, and I knew Rikker’s weary, wary New Guy journey.

I will never write 95,000 words so effortlessly again in my life. But that’s okay with me. Because it gave me Graham and Rikker.

And if you need to know that the world will be okay, watch this video a couple of times. They’ll show you.

Surprise! A new audio book. And it's a duet-style gem!

True story—the character of Pepe from the Ivy Years is very loosely based on a real person. When I worked on Wall Street, I briefly had a French Canadian assistant who had attended Yale exactly four years after I did. Our time at school didn’t overlap, but we discovered that he had lived in the exact same dorm room that I did for his Freshman year, four years later.

He was a hockey goalie, I learned. And then he said something that shocked me. He told me that he didn’t speak English very well when he started at Yale.

Now, this was a surprise on several levels. In the first place, his English by the time I met him four years later was flawless, and nearly accentless. So I never would have guessed. But the other shock was that a hockey player could get in to a top college without fluent English. I filed that away to think about later.

And then I wrote the Ivy Years, and I gave the team a couple of French Canadian players. My assistant’s story came back to me when I sat down to write Studly Period in 2018. It’s an eight-chapter serial written from the perspective of Josephine, his English tutor. I never meant it to be a full-length book, which really took the pressure off me to write it. And the result was unexpectedly moving for a story so short.

But ever since, I’ve been dreaming about how wonderful this book would sound in duet audio, with Josie’s voice carrying the weight of it, with Pepe’s French sprinkled throughout.

So I asked Tanya Eby to find a male narrator who could carry this role. And that narrator was Patrick Zeller.

Friends, Studly Period is a fabulous bit of audio! The result is positively dreamy. I’m offering it at a special price of $2.99, which I am only able to do on the Soundwise app for iOS and Android. There are no geographical restrictions.

I sure hope you enjoy it!

Get Studly Period

Good Things from August

It was a good month for writing! I added a few bees after this photo was taken.

Even in a normal year, I’m not always fond of August. My kids tend to be stressed out as school approaches. And this year just doubled down on that. Is it safe to go back to school? How do I apply to college when the SAT keeps getting canceled?

Etc. etc.

On the other hand, August is like a paradise in this part of the country. It’s warm but not too hot. The farm stand has ALL the good things. Like fresh sweet corn, and fabulous tomatoes. It was good weather for drinking outdoors with friends, too. I positioned my deck chair to point away from the weedy garden and the cheap white wine flowed!

The crickets have a lot to say. And with the windows open at night, we can hear the owls hoot and the coyotes howl. And when I went outside in the dark to sit by the pool while my teen took a late night dip, I saw a bat flying around overhead, flapping past in the moonlight.

And—this is shocking—I already have audio files for Loverboy, which publishes on December 1. I am more than three months ahead! How did this happen? Oh, wait, I’ll tell you how. I accidentally booked the narrating team a month before I meant to. Because I miscounted. Then I had to hurry up and write this book I’d been outlining for months and months. I outwitted myself. Or something. Be happy for me.

PS: those audio files SOUND AMAZING OMG I can’t wait to share.

But before you get that book, you get Lies and Lullabies in 3 weeks! Links right here.

Reading this month: Uncanny Valley by Anna Weiner, Notes on a Silencing by Lacy Crawford, How to be an Antiracist by Ibram X Kendi, Lead Me Back by CD Reiss.

Writing this month: a secret project! More info soon…

A letter to my young unpublished self

Dear Younger Sarina,

You’re in your twenties, and you can’t believe you haven’t written your novel already. You’ve squirreled away a box full of notecards, each one bearing a witty or truthful observation for your book. You have an interesting Wall Street job, and you’re going to write a thriller about it. But you’re too busy climbing the corporate ladder to sit down and write. Sometimes you take the cards out and rearrange them. Sometimes you add one. There are a couple chapters on a floppy disk somewhere, because it’s the nineties. But you don’t have anything close to a book, though, and you’re getting frustrated with yourself.

Look. Strap in. It’s going to be a long ride.

That banking is a beast, but it’s building your future. So hang in there. You’re going to quit when you’re pregnant with your second child. But very few people can write a novel with a newborn, and you are not one of them. So you’ll need to wait a little longer, until you enroll your firstborn in preschool. And now it’s time! You drop him off, walk around the Upper East Side for a half an hour until the New York Society Library opens for the morning. Then you go up to the fifth floor and write until pickup time at noon.

This is it! You finally finish the book. After querying more than fifty agents, you find one who wants to sell your Wall Street thriller. You’re 35 years old, but better late than never. This is it, right?

Nope.

That book fails to find a publisher. So you write a second one. Unbelievably, you summit that mountain again. You send this new book to your agent.

He fires you. By email. You are back to square one. It’s a very bad day.

But chin up, okay? Because you already know how this works. You write a great query letter and start e-mailing. This is what resilience looks like. Four months later you’ve done it. You have a new agent, and she loves the book. And she sells it to a Big 5 publisher. It takes a year, and your advance is not enough to live on. But yay! Big 5! 

This is it, right?

Well, no. You get good reviews from Publisher’s Weekly and Kirkus. The cover is okay. But Target declines to pick it up. And Barnes & Noble only stocks it in their “A” stores, whatever that means. Orders are so bad that you’re already depressed by the time your friends throw you a book party ten days after launch.

Now you change gears again, because you want a career, damn it. You spend three years (three!) writing an important historical novel. Your agent loves it, but she fails to sell it, even after you change your name for this book, to avoid those terrible sales numbers in Bookscan. 

One winter day you get eight publisher rejections in a single morning. Your family goes skiing without you. The book you’re half-heartedly writing next needs a sex scene, and you don’t know how to write one. So you download a romance novel to your Nook and read that instead of working. It’s a lot of fun, actually, and you read it all in one sitting. 

Then your brain says, “Hey girl. We could do this. It would be fun. Writing might be joyful again.”

You write your first romance in six weeks. Harlequin offers for it immediately. And while they’re fitting you into the queue, you self-publish another romance novel. Because why not? We threw away the rule book when we threw away the important historical novel.

Why not indeed. This is where you finally figure out how to find your readers. It’s never going to be easy. It will always be work. But you will earn a living, and you will make all your own rules. People will plunk down money for your novels, and you’ll hit the USA Today bestseller’s list fifteen times and counting.

Listen, younger Sarina. You still won’t hit the New York Times, or get a movie deal, because this is not a fairy tale. And it’s going to take a while. But you’re going to figure this out.

Oh, and before I sign off, please don’t forget to use sunscreen, either. 

Love,

Older Sarina