Pass the Salt! My Perfect(ly) Designed Life (a Manifestation)

I just found out that my latest novel, Salt Hollow, has topped the charts, surpassing The Housemaid. As I write this, I’m sipping coffee on the deck of my cozy beach house overlooking Beer Can Beach in Aptos. Hunter is lying beside me, calm and patient, knowing that soon I’ll put down my laptop and take him for a walk along the beach below, where dogs can run free.

Jump in the shower. Get dressed. Head down to the beach.

As I breathe in the cool, salty morning air, I keep an eye on Hunter. Every so often, he pauses, looks around for me, and then bounds back as if to say, “Is this a dream? I’m having so much fun!” only to run off again, leaving me to my thoughts.

I’m currently working on a new story. My agent has read the first eight chapters and loves the noir vibe, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself. This post is about Salt Hollow, so let’s give it the attention it deserves. As if landing on the New York Times Bestseller list weren’t enough, a certain (legally) blonde and ambitious Hollywood producer wants to adapt it into a screenplay—and you’ll never believe who she’s in talks with to play Charlotte: the one and only Laura Dern.

After Hunter tires himself out, I take the stairs up to my house two at a time, eager to hop into my car and meet a friend at Tidal Coffee in Monterey. We talk shop, trade inspiration, laugh, and plan the menu and playlist for an upcoming dinner party at his nearby beach house. Tidal Coffee has a lovely outdoor patio overlooking the expansive Pacific Ocean—I can’t get enough of that view. But you have to hold on tight to your scone... Otherwise, the seagulls will swan dive onto your table and snatch it up in one fell swoop.

Back at home, I wander out to my small vegetable garden, pluck a tomato and a few basil leaves, and head inside to make a Caprese salad, drizzled with extra-virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar. I tear off a still-warm piece of sourdough—picked up at the Monterey farmers market—and soak it in that oil-and-vinegar bliss. It’s only 2 p.m., but a small glass of red wine complements the late lunch, and I think, why the hell not?

Of course, red wine makes me sleepy, so I pick up the latest book I’m reading—a new thriller by a friend, set in Bolzano: there’s a train, an assassin, and I keep wanting to shout at the protagonist to get off the train. But he won’t listen. With the book in hand and a soft throw blanket wrapped around me, I settle onto the oversized chaise lounge on the deck, sink into the cushions, and try to keep my eyes open—only to drift off into a dream.