| When I heard an author say that it took years to complete their latest book, I assumed they were lazy. I mean, I wrote thirty-one YA novels in ten years. During that time I also got a puppy, moved across the country, had two kids, went for (and failed) my California Driver's license, went for it again (cheated) and passed, leased cars, bought a house, decorated said house, and did all the other things adult humans do to thrive and stay out of prison. Then, in 2011, I had an idea for a novel. An adult novel inspired by my own dirty book club. I would call it, of course, The Dirty Book Club. Thanks to my track record, an intriguing title, and some Cuervo-flavored confidence, I was able to sell it over the phone from a villa in Mexico. As for the characters, the plot, the setting, the tone, the point? They would come. They always did. "Writing for adults is different than writing for adolescents," my agent warned. "Puh-lease," I said, with the audible eye-roll of a Clique fan, "How hard can it be?" Continue reading.
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