Hi, Great to e-meet you! Did the snarkiness of that "Bad Intentions" title pique your interest? If so, my book’s for you.
I’m a copywriter who’s toiled for years at various ad agencies, corporate behemoths and publishing/media conglomerates. After managing to survive my first job writing obituaries at a local newspaper–I was an earnest 16 at the time, when my editor accused me of sabotaging the press–I eventually segued to the digital realm. The challenge was to reign in my inner English Major’s passion for the elaborately-wrought, psychologically-fraught prose of the 18th century (aka Jane Austen). After all, I had to figure out how to communicate for a living in the modern workplace, where subtle discernment is not exactly prized.
After managing to pull off a successful NYC career as a tech writer working the obligatory 80-hour weeks, I began to crave more from life than crafting high-voltage Hero messages. (Not that it wasn’t fun while it lasted.) The other galvanizing factor was waking up one day to the horrifying realization that I’d somehow morphed into middle age. We’re not talking about the epiphany of dewy-faced, 40-year-old here, but a bonafide "woman of a certain age"! (Queue shrill shrieks of horror.) I’m not even consoled when my overly-generous friends laud my great bone-structure on occasion or how well-preserved I look for my age. ("For your age" is the abomination of backhanded compliments and should be banned from social discourse for all eternity!)
The truth is (and ladies, you know this already) once you pass 50, you’re the invisible woman! No longer are you the audacious head-turner in plunging necklines and stiletto heels. Now you sit around sipping Shiraz with your girlfriends, breezily comparing Plantar Fasciitis attacks or your teenagers’ out-of-control vaping. And, if you’re really pushing the envelope, your last visit to that hella hot urologist might even come up.
Enter Tessie, my emphatically unsympathetic protagonist. She’s a gorgeous, frustrated, complicated woman of a certain age (there it is again) who refuses to apologize about being pissed off. How do you cope after years of relying on your wily, vixen bonafides, only to end up nursing a narcissistic, hypochondriac of a husband, who can’t get his head out of his Mensa-Society ass? You go medieval - that’s how.
And so, dear readers, my book celebrates the pungent reality of being a flawed, fabulous, nasty woman, who’s shrewd enough to use every tool in her arsenal to get what she wants. You may call her a bitch; I call her triumphantly human. And I’ll let you in on a little secret: If she were a man, you’d elect her to Congress! (Yeah, I went there!)