Writers disappear between books, kind of like moles, we go underground. While out of sight we work on–you guessed it–the next book.
The next book for me is not at all what I expected. It is not realistic fiction–I would call it unrealistic fiction (you might call it fantasy).
Here is the premise:
Imagine there is a bead that is the portal through which all of time flows. It has been passed down from generation to generation by the women of the Summers family–a man may never be the guardian of time, such power turns men into monsters.