Collateral Damage

Thursday, October 20, 2022, in my basement with the light fixtures that look like hanging boobs with nipples, I decided I’m finally going to write the fucking book.

A little over two years ago, in the midst of the pandemic, I, like so many other people, decided it was finally time for me to write the book. I signed up for a writing group/workshop online. I’d been talking about writing a book for, well, decades, but had no idea what the book was going to be about:

• moving to a different continent to join a cult and marry a guy I only dated for six days
• reckoning with being the collateral damage of growing up with volatile alcoholic parents and multiple other family members with substance abuse problems
• dropping out of college to be a stay-at-home mom and live in poverty before going back to college and becoming a writer after 40
• being a recovering self-help junkie dealing with people-pleasing, depression, anxiety, and disordered eating
• parenting a blended family of six teenagers with my partner of ten years and navigating step-parenting and our relationship in challenging circumstances

I didn’t even have those bullet points above in my head at the time. It was all very nebulous. I’d been writing in fits and starts, interspersed by long silences. I figured if I sign up for this author workshop and pay the subscription fee every month and go to the coaching calls every week, that will give me the financial incentive and accountability I need to write…