An obsessed husband ignores a restraining order and is decided to urge his young, beautiful wife back to his arms. His jealousy quickly turns into rage when he catches a replacement man at his house. He then decides to hatch one last plan in hopes to discourage his impending divorce urban fiction. But his well-thought-out plan ends in disaster.
Sometimes the story chooses you.
Call it a haunting.
And by haunting, I mean the memory-ghosts of events in our lives that we turn over in our hearts and minds for years. The patterns that repeat and hound us. The arc of a life that begs to be deciphered.
For years, the last decade of my 30s—bracketed by huge personal loss—played through my mind sort of a mythical journey, complete with heroes and villains. Trials, tests, and triumphs. I lived with these memories, turning them round and round black books, in an effort to form meaning from my trajectory.
I knew someday I’d need to write it.
When my marriage blew up within the wake of my husband’s betrayals and infidelity and therefore the national scandal that engulfed us, I collected all the newspaper and magazine articles from those days: The Oregonian, the l. a. Times, The ny Times, The Washington Post, Time, People. Articles sent to me by friends in Tokyo, England, and Germany, containing pictures of me they’d clipped from the pages of their hometown papers. I gathered them along side my journals and scraps of paper scrawled with my musings, and stuffed all of them into a bulging banker’s box labeled “The Bomb.” A container I banished to the attic black authors.
After I divorced “Charlie,” my life was consumed with raising my kids. Single motherhood is like running a daily marathon, barely leaving time to breathe, including write. I didn't date, certain it might bring disaster; i used to be through with that. i used to be busy growing my design business. I surrounded myself with dear friends. Life was full, i used to be serene and happy.
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