After a rough delivery, my fourteenth baby has finally made its entrance into the world.
Fourteenth??? Do I know where these things come from? Yes, I do. A seemingly limitless source of meet-cute ideas in my brain that develop from idea embryos into fiction fetuses and must eventually be born to wreak havoc on the world. Exactly like children. It's a popular cliche for a reason. And I'm too sleep-deprived to think of anything fresher. So mleh.
To continue the tiresome analogy, I think my babies are more beautiful than anyone else's, despite their imperfections. The Family Plot is no different. I love this book. Even when I started not to like it very much, because it was really getting on my nerves, and we had spent much too much together time, I loved it unconditionally. But boy am I glad it's finally out there in the world! Now it's your problem. Whew.
So next time you have a few free hours, consider babysitting my story about Whitney Faelhaber, reluctant new print shop owner, and Eric Mulligan, delightfully awkward small-town undertaker, and their common links to a remarkable woman whose death initiated a host of new beginnings. If nothing else, you'll close the book thinking, "I'm so glad that's not my kid." But I hope you say, "What a lovely child! I must tell the world what a great breeder Brea Brown is." Or something like that.
If anyone needs me, I'll be on maternity leave.