I was always an author and performer, but working with kids and their parents made me want to write about motherhood and sexual proclivity right alongside one another, an examination of the Madonna-Whore complex, which, in my case, included sexual incompatibility within marriage. Many of my music families knew I was writing a book. The most I’d say was that it was an Adults Only novel. I never shared the plot. Never told them I kept a secret dirty blog. Never let on that I was writing what is clearly a raunchy story of one woman’s sexual revolution. My music families were endlessly excited and supportive. Some asked to join my mailing list. I have no idea who they were or where they went. But I think fondly of those days, how glad I was to see their bright faces after so many sexy, steamy, spicy nights, how it gave me a sense of balance, a perfectly natural expression of body and spirit.

I was desperate for books about women like me; thirsty, overwhelmed moms caught in the disorienting madness of who they now were, who they used to be, and who they might become;“happily married” moms who were ravenous, unable to recocile their need for freedom with the need to keep their children and families free from harm; messy moms who were highly functioning but internally on fire, in turmoil, and deeply conflicted about patriarchy and the privilege of stay-at-home motherhood.