Before I could fully commit to writing Bipolar Blonde, we had a family meeting.

It sounds official, almost corporate for a family whose youngest child still occasionally wears pajamas to dinner. But truly, it felt important. The book wouldn’t just impact me. It would impact all of us.

Our kids are 6, 9 and 13. Old enough to notice things shifting. Young enough not to fully understand why.

We sat together and talked about what it would mean for Mommy to write a book. Not with a ghostwriter. Not with someone “helping” tell my story. But me. Fully me. With the support of brilliant editors, of course, because commas remain deeply untrustworthy little creatures.

We talked about what it would look like.

It would mean Mommy might miss some tennis practices. She wouldn’t make every morning school drop-off. She might be more exhausted than usual. More distracted. More pensive. More emotionally drained from revisiting parts of her life she had worked very hard to survive.

We also talked about what it would mean for me to share the story publicly: the dark, raw, but still beautiful parts. The vulnerable parts.

Our children couldn’t possibly absorb the full weight of it all, nor did I want them to. But I wanted them included in the process. I wanted them to understand, at least in some age-appropriate way, why this mattered so deeply.

Mental illness has never been hidden in our home. For years, they’ve watched me take my medicine. They’ve heard me talk openly about my “imbalances.” Probably more casually than most households discuss mood stabilizers, honestly. But that was intentional.

I never wanted bipolar disorder to feel scary or shameful or whispered about behind closed doors. No stigma lives here.

I explained that the goal of the book wasn’t simply to talk about mental illness. It was to tell a story. A real story. One filled with chaos and mania and heartbreak, yes—but also an incredible love story tucked inside all of it.

And once the family was on board, it was time to do the work. Time to write.

Writing has always been something that I love to do. But finding time has always been a challenge. Plus, after more than a decade of training myself to write copy using the fewest words possible, marketing for Buru, the idea of writing an entire book felt wildly overwhelming.

Fashion copy wants less. A memoir demands more.

More detail. More emotion. More color. More description. More vulnerability. Every scene needed texture. Every character needed dimension. Every moment needed enough emotional depth to pull the reader in and carry her alongside me.

It took practice. Unique exercises from my editors to help me pull out the five senses of each moment. Rewrites. Reading assignments. Thought-provoking questions in giant tracked-change bubbles that occasionally made me want to fake my own disappearance.

Honestly, it felt a little like going back to school. Reopening a part of my brain that had been closed off for years. At first, it felt impossible.

I realized quickly that I would need uninterrupted stretches of time to fully immerse myself in the process. To get myself emotionally back into those moments and stay there long enough to write them honestly.

Luckily (depending on who you ask) I’m not someone who requires a lot of sleep. This is admittedly a slippery slope for a person with bipolar disorder, but strangely enough, it became an advantage while trying to write a book, run a business, raise three children and maintain a happy marriage.

Though if I’m being fully transparent, the writing process probably tested our marriage most of all. The children and business often came first out of necessity. Survival. The marriage was what absorbed the leftover exhaustion.

So I decided the hours between 4 a.m. and 7 a.m. would be the least disruptive to our family.

Each night, I set my alarm. Sometimes after an aspirationally early bedtime in the ten o’clock realm. Sometimes much later if Buru work stretched long after the tiny humans finally went to sleep.

In the dark, I’d quietly make my way downstairs. The house still. Silent.

I made coffee. Started a fire. Lit a candle. Settled into the velvet mohair sofa of our formal living room. It became ritualistic. And necessary.

My initial goal was simple: get the story down. Every memory. Every scene. Every messy little detail. My editor lovingly referred to this phase as “the shitty first draft.” She assured me there was no way around it.

She was not wrong.

I clung tightly to the outline and chapter titles. They kept me moving. Kept me focused. Kept me from spiraling too far into tangents and emotional rabbit holes.

The first draft came in around 80,000 words. It was, in fact, a little shitty. But it was there. It was progress. The full story now existed in black and white, out of the perimeters of my brain. It covered all the bases. But it didn’t yet make the reader feel it. And, she deserved to feel it.

So I dove deeper.

Slowly, the writing began to feel more natural. I started describing more. Feeling more. Allowing myself to revisit places and moments I had carefully avoided for years.

I let myself feel all of it again so I could share it honestly.

There were tears. There was anger. There was elation. There was passion.

And in the process, one thing became abundantly clear: Three hours a day wasn’t going to cut it. So I found time wherever I could.

Airport and airplane time proved especially fruitful. I’m not sure if it was the seclusion, the lack of decent WiFi, or the red wine in the lounge, but the writing flowed differently there. Like the beer in Aspen. ;)

I took advantage of every second.

Other times, I’d slip away to the Langham in Pasadena. A quick drive—or fifteen-minute walk—from home. If there was still daylight, I sat outside on the patio soaking up the sun while typing away.

If it was dark—and it often was from November through February—I sat alone at a tiny table, illuminated by one of those battery-powered lamps with the glowing little shades that somehow make everyone look prettier. I’d sip a martini. Snack on luxe mixed nuts. Put in my earbuds and disappear into the most eclectic soundtrack imaginable.

Some nights called for Eminem. Others called for Louis Armstrong. Classic country carried me through childhood scenes. Carly Simon too. MGMT and Phoenix instantly transported me back to 2009, the summer the book begins. On June 18, 2009 to be exact. Michael Jackson and Ace Frehley dropped me right back onto the streets of New York City.

I edited from the bleachers during my children’s games.

I wrote from our pool loungers while watching my littles learn to dive and swim the length of the pool underwater.

I wrote in Ubers. Edited from bed. Stole moments whenever I could. And for better or worse, I used mania as my superpower.

Then one day, after countless hours that somehow felt both endless and immediate, there it was.

One hundred and twenty thousand words. Three hundred and eighty-four pages. My truth.

Filled with grit and whimsy, devastation, humor, love, vulnerability, grace, anger, glamour and raw honesty.

______________________________________

I realize this is a heftier lead time than many book pre-sales.

But something about launching it on June 18—the very day the story begins in chapter one—felt right.

Kismet, maybe.

I hope you’ll join us at 8:30 a.m Eastern Standard Time on 6.18 to secure your copy of the exclusive, linen wrapped edition of Bipolar Blonde, only available on our website and in Buru stores come fall.  Should you prefer the trade version, graced with the custom illustration by Donald Robertson (also featured on the interior of the exclusive edition) the Amazon link will also be provided at pre-sale launch time.

In addition to the book, we've curated a fun assortment of entertainment-inspired treats and thoughtfully assembled bundles. And as an added surprise, enjoy a free downloadable playlist designed to transport you back to 2009 and beyond.

This book has been years in the making, and it means so much to have your support as I finally share it with you. Thank you for being part of this journey; I truly can't wait for you to turn the first page.

PRESALES COMMENCE 6.18.26. SIGN UP FOR BOOK TOUR EVENTS HERE.