This morning, with all the news about Weinstein and cover-ups, new revelations, shock and disbelief (please, we’ve always known what goes on on the casting couch, in the priest’s confessional and under the politician’s desk), I am compelled to write a New Adult novel with a working title: “The Spring of Our Disconnect”
“Once upon a time, when Mary had just turned twenty, still young enough to be naïve, but old enough to know better (she thought), she took a job and fell in love (at least that’s what she told herself to feel better) with a politician.”
Oh, but am I prepared to tell all about a good little Catholic girl saving herself for marriage and suddenly gone wild?
