Oh Good Lord. I'm revising the most, um, racy section in my book and it's really embarrassing me! I can barely even read my own words much less my editor's comments.

Do you know how hard it is to write about s*x? (no pun intended!) Everything I write sounds like a cross between a porno and a Harlequin novel. Lucky for us all, there's a lot more flirting and emotional angst in my novel than actual s*x. Just like real life!

Moving on. I've heard people bitching about how it's September now and to that I say, yippee! Bust out the turtlenecks and the champagne because this summer practically killed me, I swear. All through July and most of August, I wanted to hide under a damn rock. Nonetheless, I managed to finish my book and hang in there without the help of the little pink pills despite all that sunshine demanding I be happy happy happy!

Oh I wish I could be one of those people who cavorts around in a carefree manner all summer in a bikini, dancing and drinking and flirting and not obsessing about life's deep, dark nastiness (the one time I DID go dancing, as you might recall, my shirt fell off!) But alas, I'm much too uptight.

After this summer's dip into depression, I do feel older. And wiser. I don't mind feeling wiser but I sure as hell don't like feeling older. But what are you gonna do? Sh*t happens. And I'm now certain that all this emotional trauma has a lot to do with finishing this book, which is one of the greatest - and scariest - things that has ever happened to me.

Now, as summer wanes and my mood improves, I'm getting out there to enjoy every last bit of it. Maybe, just maybe if a person were to ask my how my summer is going right now, my answer might be something other than "F*ck you."