My sister and I are great liars. World-class liars. Maybe we were born with the trait (after all, our paternal grandmother’s top hobby was shoplifting.) Brooklyn-born Great-Aunt Sally (Jewish, like the rest of the family) pretended to be Catholic and French — and swore she attended the Sorbonne. She even spoke English with a Gallic … Read more
I tried to think of a, um, sexier title for this post, but they all sounded, um, icky, and the last thing I want when I’m writing about sex is an ick factor. Writing about icky sex? Terrific. Writing icky about sex? Terrible. When my first novel released in 2010, Pia Lindstrom, an interviewer … Read more
Four years ago, at an event at the incredibly wonderful Reading Public Library (in Reading Massachusetts) one of the librarians bought my second novel book, The Comfort of Lies, for her mother. For Mother’s Day. Using a large amount of not-usually-available-to-me control, I didn’t say any of the following: “Nothing says Happy Mother’s Day like a … Read more
Note: Readers have written, asking what happens to Savannah, who was six years old when “The Comfort of Lies†ends. This epilogue was in the original manuscript—I thought some readers would enjoy seeing how my lovely girl (I adored her every minute of writing the book) made out. Someone talked me out of including it … Read more