Now that the hustle and bustle of the holidays are winding down and some are facing the long, cold days of winter, it’s time to snuggle up with a good book. Today’s guest contacted me and I invited him to visit us here at CMash Reads. It is my pleasure to introduce Mr. Stephen Bradlee!
Stephen Bradlee is the pen name for a Hollywood film executive. He has ghostwritten celebrity autobiographies and has worked primarily as a script doctor. He is married and lives with his wife, their daughter and their dog. You can visit Stephen at his website, Facebook, Twitter and GoodReads.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Sherry Johnson is young, beautiful, bright and athletic. She has everything going for her, except for one thing.
She is addicted to love. Her life is a vicious circle of nightly trysts and morning regrets.
Her addiction got her kicked out of college, cost her the love of her life and has left her in complete despair.
But still Sherry keeps falling in love. And falling. And falling.
Finally, as Sherry struggles to pull herself up from a bottomless abyss, she realizes that she will have to
learn to love the one person she has loathed for most of her life. Herself.
Based on the True Story of a Young Woman’s Battle with Sexual Addiction.
Read The Prologue:
PROLOGUE“I have a great story for you.”This is a sucker line for every writer. Almost everyone thinks that their life would make a great story but few of us live lives that are the stuff of great drama, and even less have material for its counterpart, great comedy. Still writers listen, at least for a few lines, because we are always looking for that great story.The caller was Candice, an old friend whose own life story actually was worth telling. A century ago, her family was among America’s richest but alcoholism had wracked every generation, dissipating the wealth until now it was nearly gone. I had known her through years of pristine sobriety and years of hard drinking and nothing in between. Now, here she was, sober and saying she had a great story.“What is it?” I asked curtly. I was on a deadline and didn’t have time to chat. I knew she would never tell her own story and who knew if she could spot great material any better than the rest of us.
“She’ll be in New York this weekend,” Candice shot back. “She wants to talk to a writer. Confidentially. When can you meet her?”
I hadn’t yet said that I would meet her. I snapped, “Two o’clock, Friday. Figaro’s.” Figaro’s was a Greenwich Village café. I was already afraid that this rendezvous would turn out to be a waste of time but I had a three o’clock meeting two blocks away. At that hour, Figaro’s would be fairly deserted and I had a side table that I sometimes used as an office cum cappuccino.
“Fine,” Candice replied.
“What’s her name?”
“She’ll find you. She’s seen your picture.”
“Why me?” I asked. Candice knew other writers.
“Just be there. I’m late for a meeting.”
“Is she some kind of whistleblower?” I asked but Candice had already hung up.
I had three days to mull over the meeting, deciding whether or not to cancel it. But in the end, I knew I’d show up. I was a writer, a sucker. Maybe this time.
At two-fifteen, I was sipping a cappuccino and scribbling notes on a manuscript when she walked in. She looked in her early thirties, with auburn hair, aquamarine eyes, and was breathtakingly beautiful. She looked so perfect that it seemed hard to imagine that her life wasn’t also perfect but that gave me hope. Nobody’s was.
She walked up to me like an old friend. “Hi, Stephen.”
“Hi,” I said, rising. We shook hands. She didn’t offer her name.
She sat down and ordered an herbal tea as we made small talk about her trip to New York. She was even more beautiful close up but her eyes gave her away. Although large and soft, they revealed that they had probably seen a lot more life than thirty years worth. She asked me several questions about myself. I answered them all. She answered none of mine except her name. “Sherry.” Her story might be great but she didn’t seem ready to tell it.
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