My first novel Life in a Supermarket Basket was born in the “10 items or less” lane, where I committed an unspeakable act: I had 14 items.

Fourteen. I might as well have robbed the place.

I stood there sweating, waiting for a loudspeaker announcement: “Attention shoppers, we have a grocery item offender in lane 3. Please pelt him with canned peas, frozen Cornish hens and Tampax.” A grandmother clutched her purse. A child soiled his diaper. I braced for the worst as I quickly scanned my items, unaware I was in the throes of a story that would grip my attention through a maddening ballet of drafts and edits for years to come.

I left the supermarket without cuffs or consequences. But ignoring the percolating story—now that would be a crime.

So, I confessed—with a pen.

I’ve always written. I started with angsty high school journals and escalated to absurd tales of Jason Voorhees tormenting The Go-Go’s. But my first professionally polished novel didn’t begin until I hit forty, armed with caffeine and questionable confidence. Seven years later, I emerged with a manuscript, a newfound respect for discipline and organization, and—perhaps most shocking of all—a working knowledge of punctuation.

Turns out writing isn’t just technical—it’s therapeutic. Somewhere between crafting emotional scenes and relatable characters, I stumbled into many unintentional therapy sessions. I learned a lot about myself. Some of it surprising, most of it unpublishable. Each chapter bears my fingerprint, faint enough to escape detection. I think. I hope.

The short form synopsis of Life in a Supermarket Basket goes like this:

When Vincent is struck by a car outside his favorite supermarket, his final moments spiral into a surreal kaleidoscope of memories. As his body fades, each item in his basket transports Vincent to a pivotal moment in his life: tomato soup recalls rare tenderness from his unstable mother; shampoo triggers a hilariously mortifying sexual awakening; pork chops resurface a devastating betrayal. Suspended between life and death, Vincent is confronted with crucial truths and regrets and must make peace with what it means to live before time runs out.

This synopsis is just weeks old. The book debuted in 2016 with a small press I’ve since left, and it’s evolved through many revisions as I pursue a literary agent and a wider release. In my next newsletter, I’ll share that journey—from small press beginnings to seeking big-league representation.

Have I finally kicked imposter syndrome to the curb? Do I believe my stories deserve the spotlight? Stay tuned for a healthy plot twist, or two.

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