I guess because I'm a washed-up journalist, I always do a lot of research.
I want characters I can live for in a setting that makes me feel like I'm there.
My ideal beach house has bookshelves full of paperbacks that can tolerate a little sand, a DVD library that includes some Disney classics for the little ones, board games, and jigsaw puzzles. At least one big flatscreen television is a must.
Between planning family vacations and running away for novel-writing retreats, I've spent much of my adult life questing for the perfect beach escape, renting cottages all along the Florida Gulf and up and down the Atlantic Coast - as far north as Nags Head, as far south as Key West.
Slipcovers are great because they can be laundered after those all-too-frequent sippy cup and red wine incidents.
I wasn't always overweight. I was a skinny little punk of a kid with severe asthma. When I got married at the age of 22, I wore a cut-down size eight wedding gown.
Although I married a sports-loving jock, I myself am not only not athletic, I am acutely, completely uncoordinated.
For years, I swore I couldn't work out because my own sweat gave me a rash.
I'm house obsessed, a house voyeur. Always have been.
I wanted a garret hideaway to write in like Jo March in 'Little Women.'
