Inspiration, to me, comes in many forms. It’s Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Elena Kagan and Sonia Sotomayor. It’s J.K. Rowling and Pablo Picasso and Stephen King. It’s my grandparents, my mom and my dad.
Because here’s the thing, the best thing I’ve ever written is the last thing I wrote. It’s the thing I’m writing now.
In Barcelona, I learned a lot about myself.
I have learned languages, found lovers and love, failed and succeeded more times than I can count. And through all of that, through the ups and downs, the adventures, experiences, fears and joys, I have always, always been a writer.
When it comes to titles, I am all or none. Some days, the blessed title deities generously bequeath the perfect name for my current work in progress, simply out of the kindness of their hearts. Other days, the well runs dry, the ground cracks below my feet, and I beg for the simplest drop of inspiration, but none is to be found.
It was only a matter of time before our paths would cross, but I firmly believe we would have found each other, no matter the circumstances. Mary is a friendmate, and I am lucky to call her mine.
There’s fantastic jazz music, the early women’s lib movement, and two main characters that could turn a morgue into a boudoir with a naughty wink and a pair of handcuffs.