How to Navigate Faking My Death While Meeting a Book Deadline and Moving

No, I'm not dead. Just moving.

Also, I was on deadline for book two. And when you combine moving with book deadline, well... faking your own death starts to sound oddly appealing.

The logic goes like this: if everyone thinks I’m dead, they'll pack up all the important stuff, toss the clutter, and—best of all—not ask if I'm emotionally prepared to part with my fifth grade poetry journal or that incense burner from my hippie days. And then—here's the genius part—I reappear with "amnesia." They’ll be so relieved I’m alive, they won’t even be mad I ghosted them in the middle of a move.

But alas, I lived. I survived the hair-pulling, the late nights, screaming into my pillow. I buckled down and finished the book. Let me repeat that for my own satisfaction: Book two (SHADOW HUNTER) is DONE and with my editor. I feel 50 pounds lighter. (Mostly paperbacks and emotional baggage.)

And the rest? Let’s just say I’ve hauled so much to the curb that I’m slightly concerned the Department of Business and Professional Regulation might ask me to register as a resale enterprise. I even have regulars—neighbors who now "walk their dogs" past the driveway like it's a Saturday morning flea market. Some are allegedly jogging. We see through each other.

So yes: I’m alive. And although I’ve never been particularly fond of this house—because Florida—I’ve made peace with it. Mainly because I’m headed toward places I love.

I can see it now... freedom. Just one more week of pretending my house is a hotel. Then I’ll be fully moved into Turtle—my true home. I’ve always had commitment issues with backyards, neighbors, and stationary living. I like knowing I can hitch up and drive away when things get tiresome.

What’s ahead? Our daughter (my best friend, though she doesn’t know it), the grandbabies (for whom I would gladly donate vital organs), and the road. National parks. Remote BLM sites. Adventure. No sameness. No stuckness.

Just twenty boxes left, a fridge to stock in Turtle the Airstream... and we’re rolling out.

This house? It’s a gem. Hidden in the woods, in the city. It really does have everything--including bunny hour. If it were in Arizona or New Hampshire, I would never leave. But it’s in Florida. So I’m waving goodbye--already--and wishing its next owners a lifetime of joy, peace, and great stories.