Why I’ll Never Participate in NaNoWriMo Again

I have dreamed of successfully completing at least one NaNoWriMo competition since 2011, and this past year I finally realized that dream. I wrote 50,014 words of This Dread Road, Book Three of The Bennett Series, in November 2015.

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I was so proud of myself. Not only had I finally managed to complete a challenge, I did it in the same month my husband and I purchased a home and moved.

For several months after I finished, I was convinced that participating in NaNo was a great thing that everyone should do. After all, I’d never managed to write so much so quickly in my life. But now that I’m finished with revisions, I can look back and say with all manner of certainty that NaNoWrioMo, while well-intentioned, did me far more harm than good.

 

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For one thing, it ushered in a horrific period of burnout. I never stopped working on This Dread Road, but it took nearly six months for me to finish the second half of the book. I went through several weeks of just not caring about the story anymore. Working on it was painful and torturous. For a while, I worried I wouldn’t finish it in time. Or at all.

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Our trip to South Carolina in March forced me to rest and rejuvenate. I came home more excited about the story than ever, having seen places like Stella Maris Church (pictured above) that were connected to the story of This Dread Road. It took another month after our return, but I finally finished the draft. I was so happy to finish, and still eternally gratefully for NaNoWriMo. If I hadn’t written that 50,014 words last November, how much further behind schedule would I be?

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But when I started revisions a few weeks ago, I realized that those first 50,000 words were essentially useless. That section of the book was packed with filler words, unnecessary characters, and subplots I hadn’t taken the time to flesh out. I could almost map my exhaustion during the month of November just looking at that first half.

I had to rewrite the first twenty-seven chapters.

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I don’t wish that I hadn’t participated in NaNo last year–it was a fun experience, and I enjoyed the camaraderie and solidarity that I experienced all across the Internet. It was finals week, but without the stress of grades hanging over my head. I got a lot done. Had I not participated, I most likely wouldn’t have taken a break to redesign all three of the covers for The Bennett Series. I wouldn’t have been able to let my experience in Charleston influence my descriptions nearly as much.

Most importantly, I wouldn’t have learned a valuable lesson: what works for others does not necessarily work for me.


This Dread Road is currently in the editing stage and is tentatively scheduled for a December 2016 release. I will hopefully have a firm date for you soon! 

Why I Write Mentally Ill Characters

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She grabbed her purse and fumbled around it desperately. Her hands were shaking so much she could barely control them, but her fingers finally closed over what she’d been looking for. She withdrew the small plastic bottle, removed the lid with a quick twist, and popped a tiny yellow circular pill into her mouth. She let it rest on her tongue for just a second before she swallowed and closed her eyes in gratitude, like a penitent receiving a communion wafer. The pill left a bitter taste on her tongue, but she didn’t care because she knew the unpleasant flavor heralded the arrival of chemical bliss. Her heart rate slowly but steadily lowered, and she found it easier to breathe.

When she opened her eyes, she found Cameron staring at her, the stubby piece of chalk dangling from his fingers and leaving smudges of powdery residue on his blue jeans. He didn’t look smug anymore. “You’re still dealing with that, then, huh?” he asked. His voice was soft and inviting, drawing her mind back to better times: a finger twirling through her shower-dampened hair, a copy of Herodotus’ Histories spread open across both their laps.

She shook her head. Now was not the time. “Sure am,” she said shortly. What else was there to say? She stuffed her midterm—the midterm she had failed—into her backpack and slung it over her shoulder, not bothering to zip it completely closed.

“Hattie.”

She looked up, and as their eyes met, she heard the question he hadn’t asked out loud. Who helps you with that now? She set her jaw in a firm line as she shot him a look. No one.

—The Partition of Africa 

 

A question I usually field at author events, signings, speaking engagements, and online communication is a simple one: “Why does Hattie have generalized anxiety disorder?”

This is not a bad question, especially considering that disorders like GAD don’t get much screen time, as it were, when it comes to contemporary YA and NA literature. If mental health is addressed, the author usually follows the somewhat familiar paths of depression, addiction, suicide, and self-harm. These are all important facets of mental illness that should we should all read about and try to understand.

But mental illness is more than those more extreme manifestations. It is more than someone being a danger to himself or others. Between the scope of “normal” and “dangerous” lies a whole host of problems that don’t seem to fit neatly into either category. The people who struggle here in this no man’s land often feel confused and alone, strung somewhere between just fine and falling apart.

People like me.


I’ve always been a worrier. Racing thoughts and infinite loops of “what ifs” have been my constant, unwelcome companion since childhood, riding my shoulder like a cartoon devil and whispering imagined calamitous possibilities into my soul. As a young child and teen, and even now sometimes as an adult, I find that the simplest hypotheticals can terrify me into a stupor.

As a child, I had no reason to question whether my mind behaved differently from those around me. Just as I took my nearsightedness in stride until about ten, when I casually asked my mother, “Why do we only see good out of our right eyes? Why are our left eyes so blurry?” I had no idea the way I felt and thought was not normal. So when the people I trusted told me not to worry so much, I tried my best to follow their directives. The guilt and stress of not being able to stop my reckless whirlwind of anxiety through sheer force of will nearly broke me.

My entire life was laced with anxiety. It was woven into the fibers of my spirit, soaked into the essence of my thoughts. I could not sleep. I could not connect with anyone. I could not withstand any measure of conflict without an almost physical pain. I could not stop eating. I could not stop crying. And still, I tried to stop worrying.


On a hot mid-September day in 2013, at the age of 23, I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder. I received the news with mixed emotions.

On the one hand, knowing that doctors had a name for what I’d been experiencing my entire life was rather comforting. My failures in the “just stop worrying” department weren’t an expression of my inadequacy, just proof that I was different from the people around me.

On the other hand, I was mentally ill. This is not information anyone wants to receive, especially not a self-proclaimed control freak like myself. The medical confirmation that no, I could not exert control over my body, was a tough pill to swallow.

Had I been managing better on my own, I probably would have ignored the doctor’s diagnosis and walked away, but my anxiety had grown and developed during my years of attempted suppression. On top of the usual undercurrent of worry which ran constantly in the background of my thoughts, I was now experiencing panic attacks that were completely disrupting my life, which was why I was sitting in a doctor’s office in the first place.

After a near-sleepless night filled with lucid nightmares and an irrational fear of dying, I’d hyperventilated and nearly blacked out on my morning commute a few days prior. Parking on a narrow, litter-covered stretch of grass, surrounded by flashing lights and being hooked up to a portable EKG monitor is an experience I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

It was time to stop trying not to worry, and start trying to understand myself.

Learning the medical side of the monster that controlled my life for years was a long, strange process. It’s strange to know that things like nutrient levels, water intake, exercise levels, and amount of sleep can adjust the way your thoughts tumble around in your mind. It’s strange to know that your body can go through a cycle of anxiety when you’re not even really worried about anything at all.


When I wrote The Partition of Africa, I was struggling to wean myself off my anxiety medication. While I knew there was no shame in treating anxiety with medication, the pills I’d been prescribed just weren’t working for me anymore. They neutralized my panic attacks and helped me sleep, but they were also warping my hormones and messing up my natural rhythms. At times, they caused more anxiety than they cured. I worried about withdrawals, dependency, and possible birth complications if I became pregnant while taking them. It was time to begin the quitting process.

I was desperate for someone to relate to during all this, someone fictional who would understand everything that I was going through. I’d already given Hattie my bookish tendencies, my control freakishness, and my shyness. I decided to give her my illness, as well.

I didn’t stop there. Gavin Reue has anxiety as well, although I don’t explicitly name it. Cameron Wolcott and Molly Marshall both have problems managing their anger. Claire James is a recovering alcoholic, former drug user, and suffers from depression.

At times, I wonder if giving my characters mental health problems was a wise idea. Not everyone struggles with issues like these, and I’m not exactly basing my plots around these illnesses. The stories would function without them, with a bit of tweaking.

But at the end of the day, I’m glad for siphoning this bit of myself into my characters, and for the opportunity to show what it’s like to experience mental illness. I want to show characters who suffer from mental illness and don’t try to harm others or themselves. I want to show that mental illness doesn’t necessarily mean “crazy” or “dangerous.” I want to give hope.

 

This blog post is not meant to be taken as medical advice. I am not a doctor. If you are exhibiting symptoms of mental illness, please contact your primary care physician or search for a mental health care provider in your area here.

 

Top 10 Ways to Use Instagram as an Author

Top Ten.jpgI’ll admit, for a long time I didn’t really see the point of Instagram as an app unto itself. I basically just used it as a photo editing app for everything I wanted to post to Facebook. I never only posted a photo on Instagram. I rarely added captions, and never utilized hashtags. I let people follow me and I followed them back, but I never checked the feed or interacted with others.

I realized a few short months ago that this was a mistake. To help out one of my favorite indie authors, I joined forces with a couple of other fans and helped start a grassroots Instagram campaign. I was amazed at the book culture that is alive and well on a social network I’d largely considered pointless. Instagram has a thriving booklover community, and it is dying for more author-reader interaction.

I’m by no means an expert, having only danced around the fringes of #bookstagram culture for a couple of months, but there are some valuable things I’ve learned that I think more authors can take advantage of.

1. Pay Attention to Hashtags

The hashtags that will be important to you vary depending on what genre and age group your books fall into, but some of the broad ones to use are #bookstagram, #booksofinstagram, #bookish, #booknerd, #bibliophile, #readinglist, and #amreading. Use these hashtags when you post about your books, but also search to see who else is using them and interact with people who look like they might enjoy reading your books.

2. Form Relationships

When you come across users who look like they might enjoy your books, don’t spam them with buy links or suggestions right away. Instead, take the time to look through their photos. Leave a few likes and comments. Ask questions that show you’re interested in getting to know them, not just making a sale.

3. Participate in Challenges

There will almost always be an ongoing photo challenge that centers on books, reading, or writing. In February, I participated (half-heartedly) in the #AuthorLifeMonth challenge. This month, I’ve been doing the #YABookADay challenge. Next month, I’m planning my own! This is a great way to connect with readers, book bloggers, and other authors, and it really helps get you in the habit of posting at least once a day.

4. Host Giveaways

Last month, I participated in an Instagram giveaway with several other indie authors. We all gave away a printed copy of one of our books. People entered to win by following me, liking the post, commenting with the hashtag #iLovePrinted Books, and tagging a friend who also loves printed books. Each of the participating authors linked to another author in our post, so theoretically an Instagram follower could click through the chain and enter each author’s giveaway. I had a blast participating in this–I received several new followers, met some great authors, and I gained a new reader in England thanks to the giveaway! It was a great experience and I hope to do it again soon.

5. Increase Blog Traffic

Create free graphics for your blog posts on sites like Canva and post them on Instagram with a sample of your blog for the day. Believe it or not, people will actually hop on over to your blog if you ask them to! I’ve seen increased traffic since I started doing this.

6. Promos, Sales, and New Releases

Continuously spamming buy links is no more successful on Instagram than it is on Twitter or Facebook. However, Instagram is a great place to share occasional promotional posts for your books, as well as eBook sales and new releases! Use hashtags like #ebooks, #kindle, #freebies, #FreeEbooks, and #newrelease in conjunction with the usual book-related hashtags I listed above to get the best coverage.

7. Provide Regular Updates

Did you just finish an amazing outline? Do you have impressive, serial-killer-like notes stuck all over your desk? Did you just print out your manuscript in all its several hundred page glory? Readers love seeing these kinds of visual progress reports. They’re fun to share, and you just might snag some future readers by keeping your followers informed about your WIP.

8. Help Boost Author Friends

Help your fellow authors out by taking a screenshot of their photos and reposting them with the hashtag #regram and tag them in the caption. It feels easier and more natural to promote others rather than ourselves, so it won’t be as obnoxious as us constantly reposting stuff about our own books, and it shows that authors are friends, not competitors.

9. Create Your Own Hashtag

Before doing this, make sure to search Instagram for it to ensure it’s not being used by another group already.

10. Post Non-Writing Related Photos

This probably seems counterintuitive, but think about it for a second. I’m sure you appreciate when the celebrities you follow on social media post about their movies, shows, albums, and books, since that’s probably why you’re following them to begin with. But don’t you really love it when they drop that persona and just get real with you? Aren’t we all dying to know what Stephen King is having for dinner, or what Nathan Fillion’s backyard looks like? Obviously, most of us self-published and indie authors aren’t celebrities by any stretch of the word, but people love to see what lies behind our writing persona. It makes us seem more like real people and encourages connection.

A Peek Into My Soul . . . Or Something Like That.

Some of you know that this semester, in addition to working on the last book in my young women’s fiction trilogy The Bennett Series and working full-time, I have also started taking classes in preparation for graduate studies in English and creative writing.

I am, for the first time in my life, taking a writing workshop class. The results of our various writing exercises and discussions have actually become quite interesting. A poet and short fiction writer, I am not–at least in my heart–but I have been pleasantly surprised with some of the poems and short stories that have been produced over the past eight weeks.

Here is a poem that was written in a scaffolding exercise early on in the class. Scaffolding a poem sounds like a rather dangerous activity that involves heights and a need for hardhats, but thankfully it’s rather simple. You take an existing poem, write it down on a piece of paper leaving space in between each line, and in those spaces, you write your own poem, drawing influence from the original.

The class started out with “Consolations After an Affair” by James Tate:

My plants are whispering to one another:
they are planning a little party
later on in the week about watering time.

I have quilts on beds and walls
that think it is still the 19th century.
They know nothing of automobiles and jet planes. 
For them a wheat field in January
is their mother and enough.
I’ve discovered that I don’t need 
a retirement plan, a plan to succeed.
A snow leopard sleeps beside me
like a slow, warm breeze.
And I can hear the inner birds singing
alone in this house I love.

After about three or four rounds of revisions, this is what I came up with. This is the first poem I’ve written in nearly five years, and the first since high school I’ve felt proud enough to share. A poetess still I am not, but now I know I could be, should the desire ever strike. I hope you enjoy it.

“Consolations After a Motorcycle Accident”

My clothes are gossiping with one another:
they are planning a little mutiny
later on in the week, if I still haven’t washed them.
I have books on shelves and floors
that think genies in bottles are real.
They know nothing of the world “impossible.”
For them, a winter ball in Moscow
is everything, and enough.
I’ve discovered that I don’t need
a will to live to breathe.
The cat watches silent in the corner
like an ominous fell breeze.
And I can taste the sad words calling forth
a ghost of diamond dust and ash and rust.

A Different Kind of Writing Sample

Usually when I post about my writing here, it’s about my creative writing. I am an author, after all. But today, I want to share a different side of myself with you all.

The historian side.

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Wait, that’s not an evil idea. It’s just a regular idea. Never mind.

Anyway, this post will be rather long, but it’s taken from my senior seminar project from my undergraduate days. This is the closest thing to a thesis I’ve had to do so far. This paper was the product of original research, meaning I was the first person to study the topic on an academic level. I spent two years immersed in dusty archival material in the basement of my university’s library to create this lumbering mass I’m about to share with you. I hope that if you choose to read it, you’ll enjoy it and learn a little something about the great state of Alabama, which–let’s be honest–could always use a little good press.

Continue reading

How I Do It: 1 Not-So-Easy Step to Make Your Dreams Come True

I hear it all the time. “How do you do it?”

It’s not an unwarranted question. Sometimes, I even ask it of myself. How do I do it?

How do I put in forty hours Monday through Friday, while still squeezing in six hours of classes, and then turn around and work another eight hours on Saturday, and then spend Sunday mornings at church, and then spend Sunday afternoons grocery shopping and doing chores? How do I manage to do all of that, and still manage to be a homeowner and a wife, and hopefully a potential mother, and put in enough writing to churn out roughly one book per year?

People also ask this question of my husband and myself as a married unit. How do we work fifty plus hours a week each, and still find time for romance and companionship? How do we manage to put money in savings almost every month on such a low combined income? How did we manage to go from limping along from paycheck to paycheck to paying off component student loans and purchasing a house in less than three years?

The answer to both questions is really one and the same.

This answer is simple, although it might not be what you want to hear. It is not a simple solution, one tiny step needed to right the balance in an already stress-filled life.

Here it is:

I do what I do because I have to.

We do what we do because we have to.

Plan everything.

Skip lunch breaks.

Save receipts.

Stay home and cook, even when it would be easier just to go out.

Budget everything. Money, time, calories. Everything.

Brainstorm while driving.

Stay up half the night working on homework and reading assignments, and then stay up even later to put in work on my books.

Don’t watch near as much Netflix as my lazy butt would like.

Know when it’s time to take a night “off” to spend time with my husband, and I don’t mind working twice as hard the next day to make that happen.

I don’t have a ton of free time–in fact, I’m not even sure I understand what free time is anymore–but you know what? I am completely, totally satisfied. I might be sleep deprived and busy to the point of nervous breakdown on some days, but for the first time in my life, I am passionate about what I do.

My office job? Love it.

My fast-food job? It’s only temporary, I don’t hate it, and it allows me to spend time with friends.

School? LOVE IT.

Writing? LOVE IT.

Achieving dreams, no matter what they are, will always require work. It will always require discipline. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you’ll pursue them later, when it will be easier, when it will be more manageable. Such a time will never come. You don’t have to do everything all at once, but you have to start somewhere.

Make a list of everything you need to accomplish in order to fulfill your dreams and start doing them as you can, baby steps, one by one. It will be frustrating and draining, and some days you will just want to give up because you feel like you’re standing still, but you’re not. You’re still light years ahead of the people who are not even trying.

Stop waiting for your fully-formed dream to drop painlessly into your lap. It’s not going to happen. It never happens like that. If you want something to happenstart that process now. You’ll be busy, and you’ll be tired, but you will be doing something you love.

If you need further inspiration, check out Zen Pencils’ wonderful illustration of a speech given by James Rhodes, “Is That Not Worth Exploring?” It makes me tear up every time I read it, because it is so true. Your dreams are worth exploring, no matter the sacrifice. No matter what you have to do. So get out there, and do it!

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THIS DREAD ROAD Cover Reveal Blast!

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 This Dread Road
Cover Reveal Blast

We cried with Hattie as her life fell apart after one forbidden mistake. 

We held our breath as Molly walked the razor-thin tightrope of ambition and morality. 

Now, it’s Claire’s turn to break and mend our hearts . . .

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Now that college is over, Claire James doesn’t know where to turn. All she has is a business degree she isn’t using and a trust fund she doesn’t want. She longs to leave her poor little rich girl past behind, but when she leaves her fiancé and finds herself stranded in a strange city with no job, no plans, and nowhere to stay, she has no choice but to seek help from her father, the fearless leader of their family’s hotel empire. 

But when he offers Claire the keys to a penthouse apartment, and with it, a path back to her old life on the Upper East Side, something inside her snaps. Instead of taking the easy way out, as she has so many times before, she makes a counteroffer: she wants to work in a James Hotel, preferably one far from the city and close to her best friend. 

As it turns out, though, Bennett is not the answer to all of Claire’s troubles. Hattie, who has always helped her in the past, is busy caring for her own growing family, and the other employees at the James see her new position as nothing more than an act of nepotism. Claire is left an outcast in a town she once called home. Lonely and depressed, she begins to wonder if this attempt to alter her fate was just one more mistake.

When Claire connects with one of the hotel’s guests during one of her long overnight shifts, though, her move finally starts to make sense. Their conversation shifts quickly from lattes to loves lost, and as her newfound friend reveals the tale of her own ruined heart, Claire realizes that she just might hold the key to repairing them both. 

Following The Partition of Africa and The Marshall Plan, this stunning conclusion to the Bennett Series whisks us across space and time to remind us of one simple truth: 

Love never fails.

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Join in the party on Facebook! 

 

Exclusive Excerpt:

“James!”

Claire’s head snapped up at the sound of her boss’s voice. All the color drained from her face when she saw the anger twisted into his features, which were usually gruff but kind. He made his way across the foyer as quickly as he could manage, his right leg lagging slightly behind the rest of his body. He stopped at the front desk and leaned on the counter for support as he caught his breath.

“What can I do for you, Hank?” she asked, hating how shrill her voice came out.

His eyes hardened when he took in her phone, which was once more open to Trevor’s Facebook page. He and Jenna were visiting her family over winter break. She had posted several pictures the day before of them touring an old retired lighthouse. A true New England Christmas. Claire locked the screen quickly and shoved it in her pocket.

“My office. Now. Richard will take over for you here.”

Like a ghost answering the summons of a séance, Richard appeared by Hank’s side. “Anything you say boss.” He gave Claire a self-satisfied smile before sliding behind the desk. He stood behind her chair, hands clasping each other primly at his waist, waiting for her to vacate the chair.

Without another word, Claire rose and followed Hank. Usually she would have demanded to know what was going on before abandoning her post to Richard, of all people, but she had never seen Hank in such an agitated state.

While he had only been her boss for a few months, Claire and Hank had been friendly with one another for several years. She’d briefly lived in the suite usually reserved for her father before defecting to the dorms after a nasty fight with her mother, and she often spent long weekends here during her student days when she needed a quick getaway. During those stays, Hank had always been kind to her, taking extra measures to make sure her needs were met. He’d once even seen to caring for Hattie when her plans over Thanksgiving abruptly changed and she no longer had a place to stay, going so far as to pick her up in Bennett and send Claire daily reports on her wellbeing while she languished at her mother’s house in Connecticut.

Now, though, Hank’s usually sparkling gray eyes were dark and brooding, like a bank of thunderclouds gathering on the horizon. Once he was sure Claire was following him, he turned and limped off toward his office with as much speed as he could muster. She wracked her brain as she fell into step behind him, trying to figure out what in the world could have elicited such strong emotion in him. Nothing she’d done came to mind, except for the tense conversation she’d exchanged with Richard a few days before, when he’d accused her of slacking off. She wondered now if Richard had lied to Hank about why she left the front desk that night, or perhaps exaggerated how long she was gone.

The two of them wended their way through the employees-only section of the first floor together, passing the conference rooms and the small kitchenette where most of the employees chose to take their breaks. Amalia was the only one back there now, and she regarded them with wide eyes as they passed. The surprise evident in her expression confirmed she had nothing to do with whatever this was. Even though she’d been somewhat cold to Claire since her arrival in August, the college student didn’t seem intent on bringing her down. Unlike some people.

When they reached Hank’s office, he held the door open for Claire so she could pass through first. A sudden terror that he was about to fire her seized control of her body. Everything inside tensed up, and her stomach churned so much she worried she would get sick again. Thankfully, she made it to the arm chair opposite his desk fully intact. He closed the door and walked past her to his desk.

Trying not to tremble, Claire crossed her arms over her stomach and waited for him to begin. Where mere months ago, her conspicuous ribs had poked out, a soft swell of flesh met her hands. Had she been in happier surroundings, she might have smiled.

Hank folded his hands on top of his desk calendar and issues a deep sigh, but offered no explanation as to why he had dragged Claire to his office. They stared at one another for several minutes before she cleared her throat, determined to put an end to this agony.

“Hank, I–”

“Claire, we need to talk about your future here.”

She swallowed and looked down, taken aback by his abruptness. “All right,” she said slowly. “What about my future here?”

“Whether or not you have one.” He unwrapped a toothpick and held it up to his mouth gingerly, as if he was contemplating how great his need for it was, before tipping his chair back. “I had high hopes for you, Claire, but I don’t think this is working out.”

This Dread Road

About the Author

12194847_10206411210811399_2494367645966130343_o​Olivia began writing creatively at eight years old. During middle and high school, she attended several writing conferences and submitted poems and short stories to various writing contests. She finished her first long work of fiction, a novella entitled Heaven’s Song, in the tenth grade. Her short story “By Its Cover” placed first in its division in the 2008 District III ​Alabama Penman Creative Writing Contest. She took a reprieve from writing during her years at the University of Montevallo, where she earned a degree in history in 2012. She finished and published her first novel, The Partition of Africa​, in 2014.
Olivia currently lives in central Alabama with her husband, to whom she’s been wed since the age of twenty-two, and their cat, Buddy. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys watching quality television—The Office (US), Parks & Recreation, 30 Rock, and Friends are her favorites—and cooking without recipes. Along with working full-time at her alma mater and studying English at the graduate level, she is busy working on her next literary adventure.

CONNECT WITH OLIVIA:

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Other Titles in the Series

The Partition of Africa: Book 1

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Hattie Greene is a serious-minded sophomore who always follows the rules. She earned her place at the prestigious Howard Knox College & University, and she intends to keep it. Much to the chagrin of her socialite roommate Claire, Hattie ignores the usual college activities in favor of focusing on her academic career. Hattie’s status as a perpetual good girl comes into question when Samson Campbell, a married professor with rugged good looks, enters the picture. He’s wrong for her on every level, but she can’t stay away. They enter an affair that threatens everything Hattie holds dear, causing her to question her very identity. All actions have consequences, and this is no exception. The heart wants what it wants. . .but what if the heart is wrong?

The Marshall Plan: Book 2

51QUn72sLUL._SX373_BO1,204,203,200_Molly Marshall is fresh out of graduate school, armed with a shiny new degree in journalism and ready to take over the world. There’s just one little problem: no one seems to care.
Six months have passed since graduation and no matter how hard she tries, she can’t find a paying job in the field she’s spent years preparing to dominate. Stuck in a menial job she hates, plagued with memories of an abusive childhood, and engaged to a man she may no longer love, she’s running out of options and fast. When she stumbles across a long-kept secret, though, everything changes and she’s forced to make a choice. What will it be, her ambition or her heart?
This standalone sequel to THE PARTITION OF AFRICA invites you to examine your thoughts on family, desire, and the nature of love itself.

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