After a full breakfast on Saturday morning, Brad and I began putting together a plan for the week. We had a goal of getting the book sold within a month.

Each week we would contact twenty-five publishing houses. Five per day, with manuscripts sent and phone calls and emails written. Brad had mainly been published at Simon & Schuster, with the exception of a few books which he went the self-publishing route.

Brad had an agent in New York, and she seemed like the best bet to immediately get an offer. Brad had already sent off the book, but he shared with me that it goes thru quite a lengthy process from beginning to end; writing to publishing. Editorial review, cover design, manuscript design, approval, final approval and the like.

Her name was Ellen. Ellen had successfully climber the ladder from a junior agent to Editor-in-Chief. She had been in charge of everything, from one department to another across the industry time and time again. And she was a shark. She had a razor-sharp eye for the business and a rolodex to rival anyone in New York.

She was quick to respond that Wednesday that the book was being considered. Brad and I continued to "get out the word" on a daily basis. We were wasting no time; as we were playing offense and not defense. Brad had shared with me that this was a rough game to win.

I was talking with my father daily and having him ask me about my progress with the novel is what kept him going; as he had had plenty of heartache on his plate. I additionally wrote him letters, and tried to keep him in the loop with text messages as we made progress.

Brad was nothing more than extraordinary. His cause and concern were genuine. I just knew in my heart of hearts that we would soon get an offer.

I would not realize how long it would take to grieve over my mother's death. She had lived a long and fruitful life with my father; but that was not the point...she was gone, and I would not see her for a long time.

Dad and I spent the week together. I called to check on the kids and Brad daily, but he had things covered at Casa Amor. I longed to be there with them, but it was important to spend time with Dad in his moment of grief. It would take him much longer to push away the feelings of emotional turmoil; the demons within, that would haunt him nightly for a while around mom's passing.

Brad was chipping away at his contacts. In his opinion, he felt that he would find a publisher for my book and that it would not take much time. I, on the other hand, was more concerned with Dad. Despite living a hard week with him, we did have a few good times and a few laughs over things. What consoled him most is that he knew in his head that she was in a much better place. Looking down on us...and smiling.

I flew back to San Diego International on a Friday. Brad and the children greeted me at the airport around 6:00 PM. I was famished, so the first order of business would be dinner. It would not take us long to find a suitable and familiar restaurant in the Gas Light District.

Florent was a new spot in town, but we decided that it would be a staple in the restaurant scene around our house. After all, we were just minutes away and the food was phenomenal. After dinner, we decided to go o a local club for a nite cap. Both of the children were old enough at this point to enjoy a nite out, and having spent the last week in a somber mood, I needed to be enlivened.

We danced the nite away, and drank most of what the bar had on tap. In the morning I would be sorry that I had imbibed to excess, but I had been smart enough to drink a lot of water and take a few Advil before bed.

Brad had the grill fired up in the morning, and a nice breakfast consisting of a multitude of things would be the first order of the day before chipping away at selling my novel.

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Brad had built quite a few contacts in his career as a writer. Surely he could help me get the word out.

I was so excited that I called home around 9:00 AM EST. What I got on the other end was Dad. Something was gravely wrong, and I knew it; simply because Mom always answered the phone. She had fallen and broken her hip, busted her noodle (head), and was now in the care of a nursing home. I had to fly home, and the book would have to wait.

Thinking having something to read might cheer her up, I printed a copy as I was packing in a furious manner. I booked a 2:00 PM flight, which would put me home by 7:00 PM that evening; EST. I wasted no time getting to the airport. Sadly, I had seen this happen on several occasions. Nursing homes can be like "Hotel California"; you can "check out", but you can "never leave."

I boarded the plane and in a little over three hours in flight time, I was home. I never wavered in my thoughts. They were solemn and gray the whole time as I flew across the plains and big cities. "What could have happened?" At the ripe-old age of ninety-three, I guess anything could have.

I picked up my rental car and drove straight to Mission Hospital. The nursing wing seemed to be full of a host of characters, and then there was mom. Dad looked distraught as I hugged him. Mom was sleeping and it would not be until 2:00 AM that she awoke due to the pain of her hip and head. She was wrapped tightly to keep the wound on her head from infection, and her eyes seemed far away when she awoke. I could see the worst beginning to happen before she even spoke.

Dad knew it too, and we just wanted her to be comfortable. A little while after a nurse re-dressed her wound, she went back to sleep. At 6:00 AM, I called Brad and asked him to book a flight for Isabella, Liam, Ryan and himself. I needed the support of my family, as this would not be a drawn out process.

They arrived the next afternoon, and were able to see mother. It was Thursday, and she passed away on Monday. Arrangements were made for the funeral on Wednesday.

I knew Dad would be a mess. I agreed to stay another week just with him. I had just turned seventy the week before and all seemed well. It was a sudden and deathly fall for mother; however, but at least she didn't suffer.

Brad, Liam and Isabella and Ryan flew back to Casa Amor that Friday. I promised I would return the following Friday. Brad promised to begin helping me get the word out. Mom was not able to read my novel, but Dad would read it that week. He was proud of me, was happy to meet Brad and was happy that I was happy. In light of the circumstances, all was well.

Mom had gone to her resting place, and it was a time to rejoice.

After finishing the book early in the morning that Sunday morning; three weeks after Brad had started coaching me, I looked at the last sentence I had just written with amazement and read and re-read it over and over again. I had finished a novel. I screamed aloud, "I have finished a novel!"

Isabella awoke and came running to the office. She said, "Mom, say it again!" So I yelled louder, "I have finished MY N-O-V-E-L!!!" By this time, everyone in the house was awake and had scurried down the step to see what was the matter. Nothing was wrong, and everything seemed to be right; or write, with the world...I had just "finished a novel."

Brad knew that it was only 7:15 AM at this point by after hugging me and allowing a little of the commotion to calm down, he scurried to the kitchen, fetched a bottle of Champagne and returned to the office. He brought along some orange juice, but I was just wanting the good stuff. He made a small toast, "To Stephanie, the most beautiful woman on Coronado Beach, and the best writer at Casa Amor!"

I could nary believe the last part, as Brad was so accomplished, but I allowed him to continue to embellish and at the same time lift my spirits. In reality, though, I had done something that only a chosen or select few do. Many of us read books for years, but ,"How many people in this world ever write one?"

Brad continued to encourage me that morning. He stated that we should continue our celebration over a nice breakfast. We did so, and we talked again about the next steps. I had only been working on my platform for a few weeks, but I had a strong network of people.

It was time to get my work out there; and with Brad's help, I knew I would be successful.

We spent the first week doing an edit of my book. I continued to write each day for about thirty minutes to an hour as Brad had suggested. The biggest thing, he said, to writing a novel is to do so like eating an elephant. The only way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time, and he paired or made this analogy to my writing.

I was nearly eighty-five percent finished at the end of week one at Casa Amor. Brad talked to me about the next steps to getting a novel published. He said, "You have to build a platform, Stephanie." By that he meant that I need not only to build a list of followers and to understand the market for my book, I had to get my name out there even before publishing. He also said that since I was nearly finished that I needed to start writing query letters. These are basically applications to publishing houses that may take the time to pick up my book.

While the steps were many, he was able to make it understandable with an almost effortless advisory bent. He knew what to say and what to do at each stage of the process, as he had gone "thru the hoops" on many an occasion. He was, after all, one of the most accomplished writers on the planet currently.

In the following three weeks, I would finish the book. I was able to hammer out the last sentence on a Sunday morning. I didn't know how, but somehow I knew the book would sell. I would someday find out just how successful it would be...

Around 8:00 AM, I started some breakfast in the kitchen. The kitchen at Casa Amor was perhaps my favourite place in the whole house. It was open to both the dining room and the living room. The Italian tiles of the backsplash and eighteen-by-eighteen tiles on the floor. Double-ovens in the wall, a pizza oven for making brick/wood-fired pizza, and then the Italian marble tops. Not only was it stylish, but was kept immaculate.

Brad insisted on a lite breakfast of eggs and bacon, which was easy for me to muster up. I made only enough for he and I as I figured that the kids would sleep a bit. Now adults; of course, but they would always be my "little" children. I was correct, as Ryan and Isabella creeped down the stairs around 9:30 AM and Liam 10. By the time they made it to the breakfast table, I had baked my favourite breakfast dish:  blueberry souffle. The recipe had been handed down for years, and I was the third in the generational lineage to have a copy. I had yet to share my guarded secret with Isabella, as she had yet to pry it out of me. Now that she and Ryan were forming a special bond, I decided to go ahead and give her a handwritten copy that morning.

After Brad had eaten, he retreated back to the office to write. Despite the fact that this was a vacation, he was in the middle of a book and had recently hit a stride he did not want to waiver from. He explained he was in the character development phase, and needed to be constantly writing until these characters came to life.

As I thought about my own book, there was not much to my character. She was a lonely woman for most of her adult life. Perhaps there were too many immediately identifiable references to myself; but in a way, I wanted my story told. Brad took a break around 11:00 and insisted that I bring him up to date on my work. He retreated to a leather chair in the Florida room and read my entire novel to this point.

His suggestion was that I turn it into a memoir. He, too, had noticed the personal references and promised to help me reshape my novel if I would allow him to. With hesitation, I nodded in agreement.