Coming on August 25, 2026

In the Space of What Was

a novel

There are at least three versions of a person: the one inside, the one outside, and the one others whisper about.

Newly divorced English teacher Lealia Escoffier moves with her two daughters to Salter, a close-knit town on the shores of Puget Sound. The moving van hasn’t left the driveway before Nancy Benson is at the door—Ladies’ Guild president, hospital administrator, the woman who gets things done. Nancy has a babysitter to recommend. Nancy has time right now. By fall, Lealia is teaching AP English at the high school and Nancy is running the PTSA. Quick to forgive, slow to confront, and willing to accommodate others at her own expense, Lealia does not yet understand that with Nancy, no kindness comes free.

Watching from the margin is Nancy’s seventeen-year-old son, Aggie—philosophical, perceptive, and more comfortable in the pages of a book than in his volatile home. When a DNA test uncovers truths his mother would rather leave buried, he is forced to question everything he has been taught to accept.

Told from three perspectives—Lealia as she rebuilds her life, Nancy, determined to manage it, and Aggie, who sees more than either of them—In the Space of What Was follows Lealia Escoffier as she stumbles into the minefield of Nancy’s territorial friendship. When Nancy’s carefully constructed façade finally explodes, both Lealia and Aggie are forced to see her clearly at last. For Lealia, that recognition comes with a painful realization: without boundaries, kindness is not virtue. It is surrender.

For readers of Big Little Lies and Ask Again, Yes—and for anyone who has ever believed they had to become less to be loved more.

The World We’re Choosing

Political division can erode friendships and families.

Unless we choose otherwise. I feel strongly about some issues—surely most everyone does.

I’ve been socially trained to stay quiet in order to preserve friendships. I’ve had friends get angry with me when I haven’t said a word about said topic, just because I’m sitting at a table where differing opinions are aired—because they think they know what I’m thinking, and they think differently. This has happened more than once.

This is messed up—can we at least agree on that?

So I’m conflicted. I want to stand up for what’s right, but I also am conflict-averse. I’m a fan of love and tolerance—but also a fan of freedom. It seems we no longer agree on what that looks like. I hate to see people thrown into a category, labeled, and judged. I’m human—I hate it the most when I see myself in the category being verbally assaulted. That calls me to show empathy for all, including those with whom I disagree.

I recognize I’m incredibly lucky to be able to say “verbally assaulted.” It gives me incredible privilege above “physically assaulted” or “killed,” doesn’t it? So I’m torn about how to respond.

I have to choose love.

I have to step outside volatility and choose love. Compassion. Empathy. Kindness. But that’s not enough.

I need Kindness with Boundaries—because the harm I tolerate does not end with me.

I’m still trying to figure out what that looks like.

Technology and Swear Words

They say when Mercury is in retrograde, technology goes haywire. Does this explain why, right after I started this new blog site, my computer blue screened? It took several days to fix it, during which no blog entries were added, and my novel rested for a change. Ultimately I decided to purchase a new computer to reduce the chances of reoccurence.

I had been ignoring the warning signs.

And because I ignored those warning signs, what did I have to do?

Spend hours of my time — and some others’ time as well — to repair the damage.

Hmm.

Paradox

Truth didn’t know
she would have to fight
to stay alive.

She thought being Truth
would be enough.

It’s not.

They assault her with shouts,
Smother her with lies,

They shove Truth in a box
with Schrödinger’s cat.

See that? they say.
Truth is whatever I declare it to be.

When power defines Truth,
Truth dies.

Rothschild

Flash Fiction

Marlena’s home was perfect: soaring coffered ceilings; exquisite Victorian decor; roaring fire flanked by Rothschild, the designer dog. An extensive staff — poorly paid but impeccably dressed — brought round the cucumber sandwiches.

But every staff has secrets.

One day the mayor came to tea… 

and Marlena observed a dried crusty spot on his saucer. 

The hand bell was fiercely rung, the servants assembled, an angry diatribe delivered to the stone-faced audience, the maid fined. Expectations were made clear.

“It won’t happen again,” they said.

“See to it,” she said.

It was from then on that Rothschild did the dishes.

Where does your writing come from?

When words scroll across the screen of my mind, sometimes I imagine writing on a tablet—more like an ancient stone tablet than a modern screen, with my thoughts guiding the chisel in effortless inscription. At other times, words flow across the same infinite screen that hosts the movies I make from memories. I just think the words and they appear, like mental dictation.

This often happens when I’m lying awake in bed, or during hypnogogia, that space between awake and asleep. I lie there as the words come, and all the ideas I’m trying to capture are expressed perfectly.

But I’m caught. I want to get up and write it down with pen and paper, or type on a screen, but that very act can stop the flow. I lie there, repeating everything to myself, trying to commit it to memory, hoping that when I rise in the morning it will still be there, etched clearly into my brain.

This can also happen when I’m running, or driving, or out on a walk—everywhere and every when it’s least possible to actually corral my thoughts onto paper. The moment I sit down to write, to dictate my thoughts to my hand, they often flee as if they’re afraid to be captured—like they can’t trust the paper to be an honest and loving custodian.

I guess that makes sense. Inside my head, they’re malleable, shapeable. They bend at my will. Once they’re written down, they become available for other eyes to draw them into other brains—brains that host entirely different constellations of experiences, which will inevitably color the meaning.

The only place those words can stay simple and true and fully understood is inside my own mind. Outside lies the chance of misinterpretation, misunderstanding, distrust.

This piece was drafted an hour or so ago, before I got out of bed. This is my attempt to reconstruct, and although I miss the loveliness of the original, I’m glad enough of it remained to escape through my fingers down to the keys of the keyboard, so I could push POST, despite knowing that that very act will change its meaning.

I’m curious. What is the inner writing experience like for you? I’d love to hear in the comments.

Asymmetry

A barefoot child kisses a world of opportunity,

Creating a dynasty where

Success waits beyond translucent dreams.

To thrive he must gain inhibitions

In a world where wars devour innocence

And rules of decorum silence

The screams of disorder in an orderly world:

Where killing is orchestrated through agreed-upon opposition,

Where peace seems irretrievable

And any kiss could come from Judas.

We are grown up!

Solid in our shoes of social dysfunction,

Cowardly and cultured,

We bow to arrogant ambition:

A corrupt dictator

In a world where

Love has been lost to a violent amnesia

And our hearts have lost their symmetry.