She and Joe (NY152’s real name) clash in real life and fall for each other online. He is unwittingly advising her in his messages how to fight her nemesis: him. She is thanking him from her laptop and then marching out her front door ready to do battle with the big bad corporate villain. Spoiler (c’mon, it came out in 1998) here, but Kathleen doesn’t get to keep her mother’s store. The film ends with her discovering that she just might be better off writing children’s fiction. Before she reaches this conclusion though, she has to confront other things in her life, like her boyfriend, Frank, who is a wonderful partner that she respects, adores and likes, but ultimately, has such little connection to anymore. And Kathleen’s optimism, which steers her fairly well through life, can only take her so far. The more she chats with NY152, the more she learns about herself. The more she learns about herself, the more she has to be true to that new knowledge. This challenges her natural cheer.

Her online pal pushes her in real life too. Because Kathleen is a sunshine person, she is rarely unkind. But she is harsh one night to Joe Fox. She lets him have it. It shocks her. It is not in her nature to do so. Or is it?

“Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life - well, valuable, but small - and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it or because I haven't been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around? I don't really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void. So good night, dear void.”

Part of the brilliance of Ephron is in her characters’ conversational subjects. So many romances are unpacked via the actual discussion of love, sex, what have you. But Joe and Kathleen discuss The Godfather, New York, how different seasons feel and ultimately, the careful art of sticking up for one’s self without being mean. Kathleen is new to this. After she lambasts Joe in person, she experiences guilt for her behavior. Online, she is confessing to NY152 how awful she feels even if she is being ‘mean’ to a mean person.

“I was able, for the first time in my life to say the exact thing I wanted to say at the exact moment I wanted to say it. And, of course, afterwards, I felt terrible, just as you said I would. I was cruel, and I'm never cruel. And even though I can hardly believe what I said mattered to this man - to him, I am just a bug to be crushed - but what if it did? No matter what he's done to me, there is no excuse for my behavior.”

Isn’t that darling? Isn’t she so gosh darn wonderful? It is not just Meg Ryan. It’s the way Kathleen is written. Her character takes the viewer on a journey of compassion and not just for others, but for ourselves. Kathleen’s run ins with Joe allow her to stick up for herself, honing her skill level from an angry lash out (which still isn’t that terrible in the grand scheme of things) to a matter-of-fact delivery of where she stands and why she feels she is in the right. We watch her grow from sunshine lady to sunshine lady who is no longer afraid of rainclouds in her sky. Kathleen invites the storm in, lets it brew and then chooses to be fine with the downpour. Life is not a bed of roses, but she still maintains her humanity while she looks out for thorns. Now here is my favorite quote:

Joe Fox: It wasn’t... personal.

Kathleen Kelly: What is that supposed to mean? I am so sick of that. All that means is that it wasn’t personal to you. But it was personal to me. It’s *personal* to a lot of people. And what’s so wrong with being personal, anyway?

Joe Fox: Uh, nothing.

Kathleen Kelly: Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal.

Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal. I once wrote an email to a boss using this quote. She was a hardass. She rolled her eyes at my expressive nature. She. . . had a lot of internalized misogyny to unpack. Goddess bless. However, when it was someone’s birthday, someone made a huge mistake, there was civil war in our department or a myriad of other emotional minefields, who did she send in to solve it? Me. Because I was personal. Because I listened to people. I made my coworkers feel heard. I navigated quirks in personality and sought solutions that were not based in ego but made all parties feel respected. Whatever else anything was, I began with being personal.

The kids are now saying, “it’s not that deep.” As an often detached Aquarius, I dig it. You have to let some things in life roll off your shoulders. I tip my hat to the idea that not every perceived slight needs to be put under a microscope. Maybe it really—that one time—was not personal. But I’m also an emotive human. I feel. I ruminate. I express. You can be both laid back and effusive. Walt Whitman said we contain multitudes.

Recently, someone said to me that they could tell something was ‘very important’ to me. In the same conversation they said, “I can’t understand why [you’re] so nervous.” For context, we were discussing my hopes and dreams. I was not nervous in an insecure way. I was nervous in a ‘is this really happening’ way. They could not understand. They did not begin by being personal. I tried to explain it to them. I hope they see what I mean one day.

Maybe it is that deep sometimes.

Is there an eldest daughter who does not have a mother wound? That’s not a rhetorical question. I really do not know. But I am an eldest daughter, and I know other eldest daughters. I am wrapping up writing a romantasy-meets-monster romance. It has been an utter delight to craft this world. Initially, it was about a divorced 35-year-old princess who is the last minute choice to be a bride in a peace treaty marriage between warring humans and orcs. But I added in ravenous drakes, evil kings, vengeful gods, gemstone talismans, pet foxes, a serious bachelor MMC, and a goat named Petunia.

It is whimsical and also high stakes. I made it a tad more fantastical than my Gods of Tintar series. Usually I layer in lots of personal agendas into my fantasies, pointing out things like misogyny and homophobia and addressing the unique pain of religious trauma. This time, I aimed for a somewhat lighter tone. I did include serious issues, but they are more backdrops than main themes. But in the early stages, I decided to include a dream mother-in-law, a balm to heal the FMC’s mother wounds (she also has a miserable father).

Once I got Heidi on page, I could not stop. She shines in the second half of the story. Imagine a sage-green She-Hulk type in her mid fifties, but set her in a medieval era countryside, dwelling in the foothills of mountains where predatory dragons reside. Now give her a bow and arrow. Now give her trauma she has kept close to her chest, as the disclosure of this trauma could cause others to be in peril. Add in a silver fox warrior boyfriend who has patiently, gratefully taken what little she can give over the course of twenty plus “winters.” Finally, set her up as a priestess of the earth goddess the orcs worship, panning for gems in sacred rivers that she then cuts into talismans for her people. She is thus skilled in lapidary. She also has a thriving garden, and she is the owner of that goat named Petunia. Don’t you want to meet her?

What I did in particular, a note I committed to when writing—an unusual approach for me as I usually like to let the characters run wild—was ensure that Heidi would not ever hold Honor, our princess FMC, in any kind of judgment for not having lived a life of hard work, for never having had to earn her keep. She would never look down on our protagonist for being soft. Heidi’s badassery does not stop at her warrior skills or her handiness. It reaches all the way through her, extending to others in the form of empathy. Her daughter-in-law’s willingness to try is enough for Heidi.

“Are you testing me?” I burst out. “Because it’s not that my spirit is weak. But my arms are somehow both chubby and scrawny at the same time. And I’ve never labored in my life. I’m awful at this. I hope you don’t think I have a bad attitude just because I can’t do it.”

Her brow creased. “Why would I criticize you for a thing that is no fault of yours? You were born into wealth. You did not choose luxury. I really just need more butter, Honor. I’m clean out and I can’t teach lapidary as easily I can show you how to churn.”

“Oh,” I said and returned to churning.

“Were you often ‘tested’ then?” she asked. “In your court life, I mean?”

I nodded. “It felt like it. Yes, I suppose I was tested quite a bit.”

“Hmm. Well, I have no tests for you, daughter. And you are more capable than you know.”

copyright Kara Reynolds

I never thought I would lean so much into this dynamic, but it has been a beautiful way to unpack my protagonist. And I think Heidi has had a soothing effect on both me and alpha readers, who are already asking for a Heidi novella. Such flattery! The other night, my cover artist (a real genius) and I went over her gorgeous design, which, although it is only in its early stages, is already sensational. She is using my character art on the cover. She suggested putting mom on the back cover in a negative space under the synopsis. I gasped. It’s a great idea. We just might have to do it.

Anyway, I should be a better businesswoman, or so I’m told. So here is a link, and you can preorder my babies for 99 cents. My Honor releases in February. I like to donate my preorder proceeds so your 99 cents will go to a worthy cause.

“I don’t think you should say anything,” she replied. “I think you should scream.”

“What?”

She grasped my upper arms and pulled me to standing. Then she brought her face near mine and said, “Scream. Throw your head back and let out that rage I know must sit in your chest. Take off that bright, hopeful mask you wear. I know it has gotten you through so much. I am astounded at how long you have worn it. It is a testament to your fortitude, your ideals. You are so strong, daughter. But also, you must be so angry. You must be furious.”

copyright Kara Reynolds

You can sign up for an ARC of my last Gods of Tintar novel here. Prioress comes out this November. You can preorder my romantic thriller, Porcelain, here. Porcelain arrives in March.

I digress. I think I’ve just always wanted to say that about Bublé.

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Maybe what the astrologers mean is Aquarius is going to find their way to fun again. Because I sure did. His name is Sever, and he is a bachelor, gentleman, and a warrior and has a pet owl named Leopold. He is devastated that his beloved brother has chosen a human bride to end an endless war between humans and orcs. He should be happy. Sever is part of the peace coalition. This is what he has been working towards with his brother and their friends, despite their vile father’s toxic masculinity and desire for dominance. The brothers have convinced their dad, king of the orcs, to agree to a truce with the humans by way of a marriage. They are just about to pull it off. But then Sever sees Honor, a cheerful 35-year-old, divorced princess resigned to her lot in life as a meaningless figurehead in her father’s court. Sever falls hard.

“Jealousy is a foreign idea to me,” said the orc. “I have never felt it before. Shameful that the first of my jealousies be directed at my closest and dearest kin. In truth, I stand here and grieve twofold. Once for the betrayal of a brother and twice for yearning after a forbidden thing. It would have been wiser to have stayed where I was.”

“Where you were?” I asked.

He clasped his hands behind him and dipped his chin. “Where I was. Over by the fountains. Instead, I saw you under the jasmine and wanted to come closer. Almost without knowing, I neared you. I believe I tread without thinking. And now, having been foolish, I must grapple with this new sin. It is jealousy I ponder now.”

I was two days fresh off of having my driver’s license suspended because I had given myself a seizure writing this other book (see previous Substack) which I very much adore and am excited to publish. I was crushed. I was depressed. I had a myriad of tests ahead of me. My talented author friend Kelsey, suggested I write the orc story.

“I am terrified of writing monster romance. But I guess.”

Kelsey was right. This was a cure. I wrote 133K words in two months. Sever and Honor were a delight. I had no plans for this story (which is how I wrote Priestess). It was liberating. It was easy. It was the most precious kind of exhale, natural and needed. I went wild with the world building. I said I was not going to do that. I was determined to write a monster romance without doing copious amounts of research on medieval life, my unoriginal setting for all my fantasy. But after Honor met a she-orc named Primrose and learned what eyeglasses were and that the “primitive” orcs figured out a way to correct nearsightedness, I could not resist myself. I put in all the lore I wanted, all the secondary characters, all the animal companions. However, I can still pat myself on the back. I did not let myself write an entire chapter on overfarming.

Good job, Kara.

Then I opened up a Google doc and added lots of lovely fellow writer pals and readers. The swooning over Sever and relating to Honor added in with the meme reactions sent to me via text and Instagram DM made my heart explode. It was the same sensation as when, in 2023, after a decade plus of running from writing, I had begun Priestess and emailed the early chapters to Angie, my college writing pal, a talent if there ever was one. Her response was one of the most profound emails I have ever received.

“I just have to tell you I love your book already. My heart is SO FULL reading this.”

Cue tears. My magic was back. Allow me to pause to say thank you to those 30 odd people who have read the rough draft of My Honor. It has been a rapturous reset. This book is my 40th birthday gift to myself. I am publishing it on February 2nd, a few days before I hit the big 4-0, of which I am not scared, but am determined to celebrate. My editor is booked. Cover art by a real genius is in the works.

Anyway, I should be a better businesswoman, or so I’m told. So here is a link, and you can preorder my babies for 99 cents. I like to donate my preorder proceeds so your 99 cents will go to a worthy cause.

Sometimes I think creatives need a lack of carrot, the absence of reward. A hard careen off-road into the unknown is inadvisable from a capitalist standpoint. We live in a commercial world. Certainly, we deserve to be paid. But art can be like blowing bubbles. The mother-of-pearl sheen is lost when you try to capture it. It pops when you chase it. So hold the wand to your lips and blow. And see what magic comes out. Go rogue. I promise. It’s a really nice feeling, a ‘good’ feeling. Hence, “Feelin’ Good” being my soundtrack at present. I started this little self-indulgent essay with music. Let’s end it that way. As you might already be able to tell, I have a badass playlist on. A real banger just started. As Paul Simon says in “50 Ways To Leave Your Lover,” “Make a new plan, Stan . . . And get yourself free.”

“The thriller? Oh, you mean the gallery lady story?”

I had pitched her a dark romance wherein a woman who runs a gallery is caught between two men: a money launderer and the US Dept. of the Treasury agent determined to take the first man down. She said, “Give me something new. That has potential.”

So I went into a writing coma for about two weeks and wrote it. Yep. I wrote 109K words in two weeks. For context, I have a super supportive partner and I went full time as an artist in late 2024 (after getting this contract). Then my KENP (Kindle Edition Normalized Pages, a measurement Amazon uses to see how many pages of a book are read in KU) blew up a little in early 2025, funding the gaps in between art stuff. So I had (cue tiny violin) the space to do this. Are you thinking, wow, how is this broad complaining? I’m thinking, why are you using ‘broad’ like a 1920s gangster? Kidding.

Now, truth be told: I had a blast. It did not end up being a dark romance, because the fictional Florida town I set it in is very ‘Roswell, New Mexico,’ or ‘Salem, Massachusetts’ and this little coastal hamlet is zany (love that word). I added in a true crime podcaster, art fraud, a lurid history full of cryptids and circus performers living there in the off season. The gallery became a multi generational antique store. The gallery owner went from being a sleek, reserved woman with some sexual regression issues to a tattooed, pink-haired sarcastic ray of sunshine who hid all of her pain from her family so they wouldn’t see the hoops she was constantly hurling herself through. The money launderer guy did not change too much but the end game guy? He became perhaps my most beloved character. My notes for him were “the person who steps on a rake and the handle flies up into his face.” I gave him a grumpy demeanor, clinical anxiety, a therapist, a passion for wildlife conservation and an inability to express himself without Kermit levels of flailing. And my sarcastic sunshine girl falls for him hard. I laughed my way through two weeks.

And I barely ate or slept.

I was so hyper-focused on getting a trad deal, I literally did not tend to my own needs. My husband said I was zombie-like. Then the calendar hit me. I had booked so much for my third title’s release: two release parties, a book fair (reportedly attended by 1200), multiple signings and popups in my area. I also went on the local news the week before to talk about my coloring book. At the book fair, 90 minutes into a super successful day—my friend acting as my assistant was like, “Dude, we’re going to sell out!”—I blacked out. I woke up in an ambulance with blood on my face (bit off a chunk of my tongue). A pleasant young paramedic was kneeling in between my legs asking me, “Ma'am, do you think you wet yourself?” as he unsnapped my bodysuit. I asked him what happened. He told me. I never got that half an hour back. It’s a closed door in my brain that I cannot open. My poor friend had to deal with the trauma of my collapse. The library hosting the event had to let in the medical staff with their stretcher. The attendees all had to watch me be carried out.

After a plethora of weird tests and multiple visits to a neurologist, it has been determined this was stress-induced and not the result of a weird growth sitting on my brain. But now I no longer have a driver’s license . Nor do I have a trad deal. I just texted my agent this morning and asked for only audio. No one has bitten while it has been on submission. I can self publish a paperback and an ebook, but not an audio and I have had lovely, wonderful experiences with my fantasy series’ audio deals. And I mainly read via audiobook. So let’s shoot for that.

I have nothing to show for it except a book. A damn good one, if I am allowed to say so. It’s my substack. So yeah, I’m saying it. It’s fuckin’ hilarious. It’s spicy. It’s got realism alongside the antics and zaniness (such a good word, right?). The villains are vile but uniquely vile. The heroine is savvy and a doll. The love interest is equal parts adorable and sexy. The side characters are, as my aunt would put it, ‘a downright scream.’ (That’s Aunt Debra speak for funny).

The thing is: nobody cares. Except my readers, I suppose. Publishers do not care that I had a seizure. Publishers do not care about my blood, sweat and tears. Publishers do not want me. As I closed my eyes in that second MRI (I needed two because there is an anomaly on my pituitary—I’ll hear more about that soon at my next appointment), I laughed to myself. Here I am in a tube, for what? For what?

For nothing.

Why am I writing then? Sigh. Because it is so intrinsically me that I ran from it. Because it is me. It is who I am. I fled for a decade plus from this. I scampered. I vamoosed. Wanting is agony. Dreaming is hell. So I am killing the dream, but this time I am not running from it. I’m taking the dream out execution style. Bang! I’m self-publishing this March. It is the same way I published Priestess. Zero expectation. All joy. I want to write with joy again. I want to write because words and fake people are carved into my very bones. I am certain that if I was exhumed hundreds of years from now there would be an arcane rune engraved into my breastbone, put there by the cosmos, that reads: writer. So, fuck it.