First of all, let me preface this post by saying I'm not complaining, and by no means do I expect anyone to feel sorry for me. Prior to publishing my first book, I'd written four novels and had two on the way. The reason, all I did was write. I'd just walked away from a fourteen-year career, both of my kids were still in school, and hubby worked a full-time, drive-to-work-five-days-a-week job. Money was tight without my income, so even if I wanted to do something, there wasn't much I could do. Fast forward six years, both of my sons are out of the house, the oldest just graduated from UCF, the youngest moved in with his cousins and plans to start UCF next fall, and hubby has a new position in his job that transported us to Pittsburgh, PA. I'm officially an empty-nester. I don't have to drive my sons to school, pick them up, drive them back to school for football practice or drama practice. I don't have to make big meals and clean up after