As I write this, 2018 is just around the corner. Two more days until I have a clean slate. Again. A blank page. A list of promises to myself– that will likely last for only 4-5 weeks. Not being pessimistic, I tell myself. Just realistic. Right? But, there’s something about a new year. 365 days to accomplish something. Try something new. Become someone better. Okay– maybe just a little better. A tweak. A goal to strive for. Maybe something we finally allow ourselves to let go. A burden we’ve carried for too long.  

My new book, Out of the Ashes is about forgiveness. Of the mistakes we sometimes make. Of the promises we failed to keep (or those damned resolutions). Ashes is about two flawed people, who have both made terrible mistakes. Years later, instead of forgiving themselves, they continue to live in the shadow of that single moment, when everything changed.    

I hope you will join me next month for Curtis and Shannon’s journey. It was sometimes painful to write, yet cathartic, too. My New Years resolution? To be kinder– hopefully to everyone in my path. To hurry less often. Enjoy more moments. Savor more books. Discover new writers. To be more active. Writing necessitates sitting for long, long periods of time. So, I’m going to work on that. And when most of these promises wander into the snowdrifts in February, I’m going to try to remember to forgive myself. You should, too. My best wishes for a wonderful 2018. Lauren

Sometimes readers ask where a book idea comes from. In the case of Out on a Limb, the idea stems from the panic all pet owners experience when their buddy is missing. In Limb, the question is– what will you do when your cat climbs to the top of your neighbor’s tree in a howling rainstorm? 

It was a dark and stormy night… Arriving home at 10 pm, still in skirt, pumps, etc from a long workday and night school, I entered the house. Kids in bed. Husband watching a late Monday Night Football game. The Patriots were on the west coast. Time for bed . . . until the cat escaped. I immediately followed. Through our yard. Into the neighbor’s yard. Up their tree. In my pumps and skirt. Cat . . . climbs higher. I climb higher. It starts raining. Hard. Cue the wind gusts. I’m clutching the skinny limbs you see all the way at the top of trees. I realized how high I’d climbed when the neighbor’s bedroom light winked out. Ten feet below me. The branches were getting slippery. Cat continues yowling– but refuses to budge. I lose one pump. Cue hysterical female sobs. (quietly, because– ssshh . . . the neighbors are now sleeping).

By halftime of the Pats game, Husband finally realizes I’m missing. I know– so flattering, right? He appears outside with a flashlight . . . searching near the car. I whisper-yell to him (because the neighbors are sleeping) and he finally looks up. And up. He trudges over to the neighbor’s yard to the base of the tree. Our conversation goes something like this: Me: Please call the fire department. Him: They probably won’t come for the cat. Me: Uh– how about to get me down? Him: I’ll just get a ladder. (Disappears to the man-shed. Returns ten minutes later with a five foot ladder). Me: What about the other fifteen feet? Him: I’ll guide you down. (Meanwhile, he’s informed me that I’m on the clock because the 3rd quarter is about to start. Me: angry whispers Call the fire department. Him: We can do this– and can you hurry up about it?

Bingo! A story idea. The moral here is never follow a cat up a tree– especially in a rainstorm. Especially late at night– while wearing heels. Especially during a Patriots game. The cat survived. I survived. But my husband missed the third quarter of the Pats game. I still hear of it to this day.