December 13th. It rained for the third time this year in San Diego last night. I was driving my convertible down the strand with the top down, screaming “You’re On Your Own Kid” as the wind and water pelted my face in the dark. Unhinged, yes. But I’m feeling pretty unhinged lately so it only fits. 

Sometimes I have the capacity to zoom out to an expansive picture of the life I’ve lived. The drastic duality of imprisonment to freedom, emptiness to abundance, desperation to contentment, degradation to empowerment. It overwhelms me. So I drive with my top down at night in 50 degree rain storms. It reminds me I’m still alive. I usually feel like I died a long time ago and this is all some continued dream where everything works out. The dream where I get to clean it all up. 

For the twenty years it’s taken me to write this book I never had a title for it. Ten years ago I titled the manuscript “Bounce” because I had to bounce back from a lot of adversity to learn to have a voice. When I started this version I titled it “All The Colors We Carry” after a painting I made. The art was about figuring out that everything I’ve gone through is what gave me the capacity to make art, the capacity to write. But the title was too long. 

In January 2024, we started editing. In February, a beautiful long haired tabby cat started coming around my house, shouting because he was hungry. He was pretty beat up and seemed in distress, but under no circumstances would he allow me to go within three feet of him without bolting. We learned that he had been banished from his family down the street by the other cats that had moved into his home. That wasn’t even enough - those same cats would come across the street to hunt him and beat him up more. He was out here trying to survive on his own, refusing to allow anyone to help him. 

For six months I agonized over his latest injuries, the weight he was dropping, if I didn’t see him for a few days. He was dying out there. Eventually he let me sit with him while he ate, and eventually he started coming into the house. His previous owner that allowed him to stay out on the street had named him Maxy. So I changed his name to Moxy, because against all the odds, he might have the audacity to live through this. 

It took 8 months to get him into the house, almost identical to our editing cycle (three total for the entire document) of this book. When we finally trapped him to get him neutered and de-matted, we had no idea how he would react to being in our house. But all he did was eat,  sleep, purr, and cuddle. He was in heaven. I never in a billion years thought this cat would allow himself to be loved and cared for. He was too burnt out from the day to day panic of trying to stay alive. (A theme.) 

Like Kevin and I, my editor Megan and her husband Mitch are cat people. So I had shared every daily detail of the highs and lows of trying to help Moxy. They were invested. On the day Moxy came into the house and just plopped down right next to me, Megan told me she thought we should name the book Moxy. Mostly because moxy essentially means audacity. And the audacity it’s going to take to actually put this story out into the world, with no control of how people perceive it or me when all is said and done - is one of the biggest blocks I’ve ever experienced. 

A lot of days, I know. That this is why I’m still here. And a lot of days, I spiral into fear and doubt. 

Because the cat and I aren’t that different, and in a lot of ways neither are the stories we have. My daughter has always told me that if I were a cat, I’d be a fluffy green eyed tabby. Moxy and I were just getting into a routine, and as I began the process of what would undoubtedly be years of rejections from literary agents - without notice, Moxy left again, and wouldn’t go near me. 

I was distraught, to say the least. 

A month later, on the day that I registered my own publishing imprint to publish my own book - he came back into the house. 

He’s been here every day since. He loves being meticulously groomed and belly rubs in the sunshine. He’s probably put on ten pounds and his long winter coat is so silky and beautiful now. All he had to do was surrender, just all I had to do was surrender what will happen to my egotistical ideas of what I think should happen. 

That’s the thing about surrender. You think it’s going to feel like peace, but it actually feels like hell. At first anyway. I know this. And I think Moxy knows this too. 

I don’t have a release or presale date yet for the book, but hopefully one or the other by February of 2025. 

If you’ve ever screamed the ten minute version of all too well word for word until your throat was sore, this book is for you. If you ever accidentally defined yourself based on the internalization of unrequited love, only to find out that it all eventually comes back to you, just in a better form - this book is for you. If you feel like you’re barely hanging on because your past life was “a little crazy” this book is for you. Other than that, that’s the story of why I named my debut novel after my cat.