To say I’m a Nicholas Sparks fan girl is an understatement. As most of you know, I up and moved across the country to the setting of his novels to write the first draft of Waiting at Hayden’s. So during my recent book tour, where I traveled through the South and then the East Coast introducing shopfiction™ to bookstores, I knew I had to stop in his hometown. The drive there was filled with excitement. And lots of missed exits and wrong turns (hence why I ended up having my sister’s friend, . . .
I’ve been traveling quite a bit recently introducing shopfiction to bookstores and one question I got from a reporter the other day was: how do you stay healthy when you’re on the road. At home in Orange County I’m a personal trainer and group fitness instructor and typically teach several classes a day to help support my dream job. Traveling is a big adjustment and I’m certainly as guilty as the next person of succumbing to unhealthy habits when I’m not at home (and let’s be honest, when I . . .
The other week, while traveling on my book tour, I fell for somebody. It was one of those instant, mutual connections—the kind you don’t have to question, or ask your best friend: what do YOU think about him? I love anything in life that doesn’t need to be questioned, because I am naturally someone who questions everything. (The other week I was in an online chat with someone in tech support for GoDaddy, and after three hours going back and forth with the guy about a problem with my website, . . .
When it comes to our wardrobes, most of us love the transition from one season to the next. I’m currently loving this fall top, these high-waisted jeans, and these scalloped flats. But in our personal lives, we tend to fear transitional phases. During a recent flight to Boston I was delayed for seven hours in the airport. With time to kill, I started talking with another passenger from my flight. He was traveling for work, but told me he didn’t really love his job. “Why don’t you find a . . .
This summer, according to Instagram, every single twenty-eight-year-old girl got married. Except for me—and a few of my single girlfriends. “I thought I’d be married at twenty-two,” one of my friends lamented to me the other day on the phone. “And have at least three children by twenty-eight.” Yes, I thought. We all did, didn’t we? That was back when we were ten and twenty-two seemed like several lifetimes away (or at least after a shit ton of summer breaks and Christmases). Now, I . . .
When I was in the third grade my teacher gave us an assignment to come up with an invention. Mine was an innovative, practical, BRILLIANT way to quickly wake people up in the morning. I set an alarm to go off and had my sister, Casey, the “test subject”, lie in bed and pull a string when she heard the beep. The string released Tabasco sauce down a PVC pipe and into her mouth. “You asshole!” she said, popping right up and hitting me. (Casey routinely had her mouth washed out with soap when . . .