At thirty-two, Kimmy had sort of stumbled into writing professionally in a roundabout way. She’d always loved to read, and as a teenager had toyed with the idea of writing her own stories someday, but the journals she used to keep were filled with the beginnings of never-finished fantasy stories of princesses and wizards and castles, and of course the dashing heroes in black, with chiseled jaws and wounded hearts, rugged men only the heroines could save. All regurgitated ideas culled from the stories she’d read at the time, nothing original, nothing she could’ve called her own.
It took one writing class in college and a mean-spirited teacher who loved to make his students write book reports on the short stories in The New Yorker to make Kimmy think she simply didn’t have what it took to b
