Tag Archive for: Take My Husband Please

The Perfect Holiday Gift of Unconventional Romantic Comedy

By Kimberly Jayne

Happy holidays to all! This month, with Take My Husband, Please! on sale for the holidays, I’d like to give you a taste of what reviewers and critics are saying:

From Publisher’s Weekly’s BookLife Prize in Fiction: “Slightly madcap, suddenly sweet, this novel combines the best of female friendship with soulful exploration of passion in its many forms. The dialog-heavy, elegant writing style pulls readers into a world that is difficult to leave.”

From the Midwest Book Review: “A delightfully quirky yet all-too-human cast of supporting characters rounds out this genre-busting tragi-sexy-drama-comedy. Highly recommended!”

From Readers’ Favorite: “Take My Husband, Please by Kimberly Jayne was a wonderful romance and a complete delight to read. I really enjoyed this book and I recommend it to anyone who likes a good combination of comedy and romance.

From Self-Publishing Review: “A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy. Will and Sophie are wonderfully flawed characters who find themselves in one absurd situation after another that’ll have you in stitches. In addition, the quirky supporting cast really brings this novel to life, and the author was able to throw in several hilarious and suspenseful twists and turns.

And if that doesn’t entice you to gift this delightful romantic comedy to someone you love—including yourself—here’s the opening excerpt:


Mitch Houdini clung to Sophie’s shoulders like the week’s dry cleaning as she led him inside. Loud enough to scare off intruders, her strappy stilettos click-clack-click-clacked across the hardwoods and echoed off the walls, giving her foyer a deserted feel. She reached for the lights but thought better of it because, in the dark, a few stubborn extra pounds and some baby-birthing stretch marks don’t exist. Right?

Mitch kicked the door shut and twirled Sophie around, painting a wet trail of kisses along her neck that fueled her long-suppressed yearning to be touched and adored—worshipped even—by a man. This man. From the moment he’d whisked her away in his Lamborghini convertible for a happy hour that had lingered to midnight, Mitch had been a heat-seeking missile she could not deflect. Not that she wanted to after all those Mexican martinis.

She reached behind, dropped her keys on a wood console table cluttered with framed photos and a warming pot of orange blossom-scented wax, and discreetly flipped a family portrait on its face. After the date she’d had, prying eyes need not sabotage her mission.


His voice vibrated the hair on her neck like plucked violin strings. He caressed her face in his hands and let his brazen tongue probe one ear, exploring every hill and cranny like he polished the chrome wheels of his cherished Lamborghini—cleaning and buffing and shining—and shooting chills right to her marrow. He followed with an invitation for dueling tongues, and by then she figured there wasn’t much that tongue of his couldn’t do. Still, she had imagined he would taste more like Don Juan instead of Cuban cigars and Stolichnaya.

Mitch took a breath and shrugged out of his sports coat, revealing a wedge-shaped torso that strained against the fabric of his tailored shirt. She stood in the shadow of his six-four frame, the ceiling vents blasting cold air on her skin, while his hands ventured where no man had gone for nearly two years. He thumbed her breasts through her little black dress and a pushup bra with its work cut out for it, igniting a white-hot desire between her legs. Every millimeter of her womanhood begged for the point of no return. Begged.

That’s when he crushed himself against her.

Whoa. So the rumors were true. His manhood was the stuff of local legend, regaled in water cooler jokes about some hocus pocus that had to be kept under wraps—an industrial-length Mr. Slinky. Uncompressed, it could be dangerous. His massive hardness rolled against her bellybutton and his soft moans set her on fire.

Teasing him with a gentle bite on his lower lip, she drew him into the shadowy living room, around the sofa. He pulled her closer, his hands disappearing under her dress and searing his fingerprints into her bare skin. She felt her lacy panties shift and roll down until they stretched around her thighs. As his fingers explored the terrain between her legs, her breath caught and she could no longer wait.

She pushed him onto the sofa and pounced on top of him. But in less time than it took to say, Wheeee! Sophie felt herself flying backward. She landed on the coffee table with her feet in the air and her bottom winking at the ceiling.

“What the hell?” Mitch said, scrambling to his feet.

“What the hell?” came another man’s voice.

“What the hell?” Sophie echoed, clapping her hands to turn on the lamp.

A man in a black T-shirt and sweats rolled off the sofa, fast-blinking and squinting as if he’d just woken up, his salt-and-pepper mullet spiked in all directions.

Sophie gasped and gaped. “Why the hell are you in my house?”

Mitch launched into a fighting stance with his fists up. “Who is this?”

“He’s my— he’s my—” She blew out an exasperated sigh. “Husband.”

“Your husband?” Mitch’s face turned the same shade as the Sultry Summer Spice lip color smudged around his bruised mouth.

“Ex-husband, actually.”

“Not ex yet,” the mullet-headed man said.

Sophie huffed and rolled her eyes, gesturing at each man by way of introduction. “Will Camden, Mitchell Houdini.”

They made no move to shake hands, and a hot rash of embarrassment spread across her skin. Will had never seen her with another man before. Had he heard her mouth kissing Mitch’s? Her sighs escaping? Her primal need for fulfillment screaming?

The hot rash began to itch then, and she wiped her swollen lips. Her hair clip fell out and bounced on the hardwoods, and that’s when she noticed her push-up pads had dislodged themselves and wiggled up to her neck. Great. Now she had no boobs, an up-don’t, and her dignity bunched around her ankles. It was official. She was a slut.

“I don’t feel well.” She held her stomach and wavered on her heels, reaching down to pull up her panties when the martinis went to her head, her eyes crossed, and the room swirled. Down she went like a felled redwood.

Will extricated the panties from her heels and dangled them from his fingertips. “You wear a G-string now?”

Mitch hauled her up by the armpits. “Something you want to tell me?”

Sophie snatched back her panties and squeezed her eyes shut to quell the dizziness. “There’s not much to tell. We’ve been separated for more than a year, and now we’re getting divorced. The papers have been filed. Speaking of divorce, Will, did you forget you don’t live here anymore?”

“I’m here because somebody had to pick up the kids from the slumber party. They’re upstairs, sick.”

“What? Both of them?”

“Too much sugar would be my guess. And omigod, the projectile barfing was epic. I’m talking some serious industrial-strength chum. First, one would blow and then the other. I think they were tag-teaming me. I divvied out the Pepto-Bismol, and at least that didn’t come back up.”

Mitch’s mouth contorted through various incarnations of horror.

“Exactly,” Will said. “Regurgitated strawberry shortcake is something you don’t want to miss in your lifetime.”

“Good god.” Sophie dug her fingers into her forehead. A lifelong bachelor like Mitch Houdini had to be eased into the dark side of childrearing. Will could play tough, but he had his less-than-shining moments too; he was the king of squeamish stomachs. “You gave up a sympathy barf, didn’t you?”

Will screwed up his face, not bothering to deny it. “Point is, I was here for the kids. I handled it. The kitchen, the staircase, even the big wet spot on your bed.” Before she could ask, he waved it off. “They’re fine now, I’m telling you. It’s just that Keely had to see for herself that you weren’t in there, and—”

Mitch backed into the foyer. “Look, I don’t know who’s interrupting here, me or your—er, husband. So I should go and let you two work this out.”

Dammit. This was her one night. She’d been crushing on this man for months; and after a handful of dates, they’d passed the hardest part, broken the slab of ice that had encased her libido for so long.

She thrust her palm flat toward him. “Please don’t go. Will is leaving, aren’t you? Because, at the risk of sounding like a broken record, you don’t live here anymore.”

“Ah, yes,” Will said, his mouth an intractable slash. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your…” finger quotes, “big date. Can’t put a kink in Sophie’s plans with the—” quotes again, “big date, now can we?”

“You know,” Mitch said from the foyer, forming finger quotes of his own, “the big date is still here.”

Will squinted at him. “Yeah, why is that, Mitchell?”

The way he said Mitchell was equivalent to verbal spitting. They both stood with eyes narrowed, chins high, and chests puffed out. A cockfight waiting to happen.

Mitch towered over Will by six inches with shoulders and arms to match. He extended a hand. “It’s Mitch. Mitch Houdini. We’re all adults here. Why don’t we start over?”

Will grudgingly shook Mitch’s hand, and each man’s arm tensed in the protracted squeezing of Olympic wrestlers, jaws clenching and nostrils flaring. Mitch’s biceps bulged through his dress shirt, and his face contorted with the effort. Will scrunched up his face like he might have been on the crapper.

Sophie planted herself between them and peeled their hands apart. “There we go,” she said, as if breaking up two first graders. “There we go. All civil again. Isn’t that better?”

Will pointed a wavering finger. “Houdini. Houdini Real Estate? Where We Make the Home of Your Dreams Appear Like Magic? Aren’t you Sophie’s boss?”

Sophie crossed her arms over her chest. “He’s not my boss.”

“I’m her sponsoring broker,” Mitch said. “Sophie is her own boss.”

The cuckoo lurched in and out of a tiny cubbyhole in the clock, crowing twelve times in a thick, gelatinous quiet, when Will turned a wary gaze on Sophie.

She opened the front door, tamping down the creeping swell of guilt. “We’re past the judging phase, Will.” The cool night air swirled around her bare legs, and she guided him with a scooping hand gesture toward the exit. “Thanks for getting the kids.”

He got nose to nose with her. “Just one more thing.”

She tapped her foot while he readied himself to say just one more thing. “Well?”

“Sophie,” he said, with some apparent mental wrangling and a sidelong glance at Mitch. And then he muttered, “I’m staying in the studio for a while.”

Sophie leaned closer. “What? The shed?”

“The studio, the shed, whatever. I’m staying in it for a while.”

“Ohhellno, you’re not.”

“Ohhellyes, I am.” He turned and headed straight for the back door.

She ran ahead and blocked the door with her body. “What’s going on? You’re not staying here unless I know why.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “I got… laid off.”

“Laid off?” she shouted. “When?”

“Shhh.” He peered over his shoulder. “Could we not yell it to the world?”

“You’re a director of product development. You have products to develop.”

He shook his head. “Whole division is gone. Three months ago. It makes business sense. They’re reorganizing, and—”
“Are you kidding?” Sophie could feel her temper building to an ugly pitch. “You waited till now to tell me? What about your condo?”

“Sold it. Buyers wanted in early. They’re leasing it back from me till the closing, which is three or four weeks from this morning. So…”

“Will Camden! You seriously can’t—”

He placed one hand over her mouth. “Now, don’t say something you’ll regret. I know this seems like a good time to lay into me, but I just need the studio temporarily, till my money’s freed up.”

Her resolve to not speak wavered until he removed his hand. “There’s no place to sleep down there. Junk’s everywhere. You still haven’t cleaned out all your stuff. The electricity isn’t even connected. Not to mention the black widows and fat, flying, disgusting cockroaches.”

“Come on, your cockroaches are not fat.”

“It’s got a padlock on it, and the door is all wonky and—”

“I have been here before, and I do have a key.”

Sophie’s lips pressed into a scowl, which was hard to maintain given that he was still mourning his father. It had only been a few months since Gus Camden passed. How could she be heartless and not help his grieving son? Still, a night in the shed for anyone, much less Will, was nonsensical. His eyes looked tired and red, and those broad shoulders she’d once leaned on with such unwavering trust now sagged. Had he lost weight?

She tilted her chin. “I want you out of my life, Will.”

“Yeah? Well, I wouldn’t take you back if you begged me.”

“Good. Because I would never beg.”

It was an exchange they’d volleyed back and forth since he moved out and always resulted in a Camden Standoff, two ex-lovers, ex-confidants, ex-family, ex-everything glaring until somebody blinked.

Sophie raised a finger and opened the door. “One night. Do you understand? One night.”

Will gave a withering last glance before he flipped on the porch light, crossed the deck, and descended three steps to the flagstone pavers that led to the erstwhile-music-studio-turned-dilapidated-shed at the far corner of an oversized yard. Head hanging, he looked back, affecting a weird, tight-lipped smile that did nothing to reassure her that he was all right.

But the massive oak trees cast opaque shadows across the yard; he tripped over Keely’s pink Schwinn and landed on the chrome handlebars with dangling neon ribbons. His elbow thumped the rubber horn, and a clownish honk echoed through the air. He bounced up as if it had never happened and disappeared into the night with a slight limp.

Sophie shut the door, awash with questions. How bad were things that Will Camden would sleep in a bug-infested junk room?

Want to get your copy? Find it here on Amazon: Take My Husband, Please.

Kimberly Jayne is the author of the dark fantasy series Demonesse: Avarus and the hilarious romantic comedy Take My Husband, Please. She has been making up stories since she was five, when she scribbled on her grandfather’s notepads her first tall tale about pigs flying. Yes, she started that shtick. Since then, she’s written just about everything and for various websites and clients, including humor features for Playgirl Magazine. She also performed her work in the 2011 Listen to Your Mother Show in Austin, Texas. Visit her at ReadKimberly.com.  

The Four Fs of November

By Kimberly Jayne

November is my favorite color. And it’s also the combination of family,
fun, football, and the Frustration 50. Let me explain.

Family, of course, because of Thanksgiving gatherings; there’s
nothing I love more than being with my family members and feasting and fullness—usually
too-fullness. Fun because it’s my favorite season, and while the painted canopies
flicker in the sunlight and blanket the ground with fall magnificence, I can
rejoice in jeans, boots, and sweaters—what I call finery. November is also for
football. Woot! And FF for Fantasy Football, fall’s double whammy.

Finally, there’s the Frustration 50, because NaNoWriMo. If
you know what that is, I feel your shuddering from here. If not, let me fill
you in. NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month, and it dares us to write a
novel of 50,000 words November 1–30. That’s 1,667 words a day for 30 days, yo.

Close to half a million people are participating in
NaNoWriMo this year, and across America people are gathering in coffee shops
and online to discuss words and stories—and their frustrations at trying to
meet this demanding word count in so little time. And I’m one of them.

It’s haaaaaard! After the first week, I’m reluctant to
announce how behind I am in words and how overflowing I am in caffeine. I knew
I would be (and as the saying goes, if you think you will, you’re right!). Hey,
I have the complications of a day job that eats up 10 hours of my day,
including travel, and the foils of after-hours fatigue because of said day job,
so achieving the daily 1,667 word count precisely defines “challenge”
in the dictionary. Feeling my Frustration 50 reference now?

As of today, I should have written 11,669 words. I’m not
even close. I’m at about 4,000. But they are 4,000 words I didn’t have before, so
I’m not a complete failure. If I keep at it, I surely will finish in record
time the last two episodes of my dark fantasy Demonesse: Avarus. And I’m determined to finish because it’s my
favorite time of year, I’m happiest and most motivated in November, and I’m up
for a dare.

November is also for foolish, but that’s a whole other post.

What about you? Are you braving the challenge of NaNoWriMo?

Kimberly Jayne writes humor, romantic comedy, suspense, erotica,
and dark fantasy. Her latest foray into a dark fantasy released in episodes is
as much an adventure as the writing itself. You can check her out on Amazon. Find
out more about her at 

Books by Kimberly Jayne:

Take My Husband, Please: An Unconventional Romantic Comedy
Avarus, Episode 1

Avarus, Episode 2

Demonesse: Avarus, Episode 3
All the Innuendo, Half the Fact: Reflections of a
Fragrant Liar


Too Perfect

Kimberly Jayne

love journals. I request them for birthdays and other gift-giving opportunities
where I can actually tell people what they can buy me. They’re going to buy me
something, so it may as well be what I want, right? Journals are beautiful
inside and out, and I must have them. Plus, I have never found a reason to
re-gift a journal. Ever. Because that would be wrong. 

here’s the problem. You knew there would be one, right? Yes, there’s a problem.
It’s the girdle of perfection that squeezes the daring out of me. See, my
beloved journals are perfect. I adore them. I fondle their smooth edges and
bindings and dream of the worthy thoughts and ideas that only I can pour
inside. I covet them like Scrooge covets his bags of gold, all for myself. The
one thing I don’t do is write in them. They are simply too perfect. 

currently have a collection of a dozen beautiful journals that now serve only
to taunt me because they’re gathering dust and slowly disintegrating, as all
things do with the passage of time, without the glory of someone’s pen (mine)
scrawling and jotting and doodling and masterpiecing across their pages. I
know. This could be the very definition of sad. *Sheds pitiful writer’s tears.*

obviously, this is a bit of a conundrum because the reason I ask for journals
in the first place is precisely because they’re beautiful, and I really do want
to write in them. One would be perfect for recounting my life so my children
would actually learn who I am after I’m dead. One would be perfect for writing my
innermost thoughts about men and relationships and sex—but, er, what if someone
finds it after I’m dead? And still another without lines would be perfect for
drawing and sketching and arting, except that I’m no Michelangelo. I’m not even
a Southpark Trey Parker. And there I’d be, embarrassing my children from the
grave. *Pauses. Considers the merits of this one.*

have intended to change this situation for a long time, coaxing and finagling,
and bribing myself into writing something in each journal. So far, I
have inscribed my name. I do have nice handwriting. Meanwhile, I keep adding
more journals. Every time I walk into a book store, I walk out with a perfect,
hoardworthy journal that remains as I received it: empty and deprived.

So I
mentioned this little “problem” to some writer friends at a retreat last
weekend. One of them is not only a writer and a longtime friend but a life and
creativity coach. A wise and delightful woman, she immediately identified a
solution. Wabi-sabi.

represents Japanese aesthetics and a world view centered on the acceptance of
transience and imperfection. A concept derived from Buddhism, the aesthetic is
described as beauty that is imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete. Like my
journals. Characteristics of the wabi-sabi aesthetic include asymmetry,
roughness, and the ingenuous integrity of natural objects and processes. In
other words, Wabi-sabi says the beauty of an object is in its flaws. In a
pretty but cracked vase, wabi-sabi is the flaw where the gift of light pours
in. And whose broken heart isn’t the personification of wabi-sabi?

short, wabi-sabi struck me right between the brain lobes, creating a fissure in
my thinking—and how very wabi-sabi that there the light shined in. It was so
simple. So illuminating. So right in front of me all along. By writing in my
journals, I’m not sullying their pages with my existential drivel. I’m not
destroying the beauty and perfection of their craftsmanship. I’m not wasting
the trees that gave their lives to be tattooed by my brain matter. In fact, I’m
making my journals more beautiful, more valuable, more worthwhile—if to no one
else but me. And any family that survives me. 

To make sure I won’t slide back into [absurd] old habits, I invited two of my nanababies to color on the first few pages. And guess what? The journals have become even more precious to me and, far from perfect, I’m free to fill them up with abandon—and writer stuff.

about you? What can wabi-sabi do for you? How can it break the girdle of
perfection that binds you? Can it free you, as it has freed me?
Kimberly Jayne is the author of the dark fantasy series
Demonesse: Avarus and the hilarious romantic comedy Take My Husband, Please. She has been making up stories since she was five, when she scribbled on her grandfather’s notepads her first tall tale about pigs flying. Yes, she started that shtick. Since then, she’s written just about everything and for various websites and clients, including humor features for Playgirl Magazine. She also performed her work in the 2011 Listen to Your Mother Show in Austin, Texas. Visit her at ReadKimberly.com.  

Let Freedom Ring!

By Kimberly Jayne

It’s the 4th of July, and a proper day to feel grateful for all the freedoms our forefathers and mothers granted us. As an American, I’m most grateful for the First Amendment, giving me freedom of speech. As an American writer, I can speak whatever my heart desires in my chosen artistic form, be it fanciful fiction, a memoir of my life experience, erotica, or protests against my government. 

Certainly, the United States isn’t perfect, and it’s all too easy to take our freedoms for granted because we’ve never lived without them. But we all recognize that there are people around the world who wouldn’t dare put their thoughts into words or on paper for fear of reprisal or imprisonment by their hostile governments. 

So today, I’m feeling especially grateful for my freedoms. I hope, like me, you will enjoy your holiday with friends and family and celebrate being an American. 


Take My Husband, Please!
By Kimberly Jayne

If you could teach your ex-husband a lesson, would you?

After Sophie files for divorce from Will, his unexpected financial apocalypse brings him back under her roof. Awkward! And if that’s not bad enough, Sophie’s new guy—a sexy and successful entrepreneur—is not keen on dating her without proof that Will is truly out of the picture. Sophie and her best friend concoct a brilliant bet to keep Will “occupied,” but things take a surprise turn for the crazy when Sophie gets roped into sending her ex on five blind dates!

You’ll laugh, you’ll cry. You might even want to Take My Husband, Please! Available on Amazon in ebook and paperback.

For more about Kimberly Jayne, please visit www.readkimberly.com.

An Impassioned Kiss-Off

By Kimberly Jayne

To My Darling,

It pains me to tell you that I’ve been plotting your demise. I admit, I had trouble imagining life without you as I reveled in your magnificence. You were sexy, intelligent, and witty once upon a time, as if you jumped right out of a Conroy novel. Indeed, I adored everything about you, even your spelling.

But you were immune to conflict, and every tweak I gave you was for naught. When I finally critiqued you constructively, I wondered if you were really even necessary. Could you still be relevant after all the changes we’d gone through? Or were you simply cluttering my life?

I admit, I had to ask myself, what part did my ego play in keeping you around?

Darling, all words are important. Except yours. Repetitive and passive, you lack the elements of style. You are hyperbole to the succinct snappiness I long for. When others gasped (reading you far better than I), I knew it was time to drop you like a clichéd hot potato. We all make sacrifices, darling. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the one. So said Mr. Spock once. Besides, you are not tight. And I like tight. Everybody likes tight.

Oh, I could keep you around, try to modify your behavior, juxtapose your more salient points, or even attempt to resurrect you to glory. But my trust in you would be misplaced. I see that now, and I can quit you. When you’re gone, you’ll leave a space. But only one. And I’m determined to make a scene, so get ready.

Farewell, my darling. It’s a dark and stormy night for you. Time for me to cut you and bury you in my garden where no one will find you. With the proper point of view, I’ll transition and move on. As of now, you are dead to me.

Never more,

Your Creator

Author’s note: All good writers must do this thing known as “killing your darlings”—so called because of how hard it is to delete words, sentences, paragraphs, and even entire chapters when you’ve put so much creative energy into them and they seem so perfect, so darling. But killing off what no longer works is a must to maintain the integrity of the story, and sometimes it requires nothing less than an impassioned kiss-off.

Take My Husband, Please!
By Kimberly Jayne

If you could teach your ex-husband a lesson, would you?

After Sophie files for divorce from Will, his unexpected financial apocalypse brings him back under her roof. Awkward! And if that’s not bad enough, Sophie’s new guy—a sexy and successful entrepreneur—is not keen on dating her without proof that Will is truly out of the picture. Sophie and her best friend concoct a brilliant bet to keep Will “occupied,” but things take a surprise turn for the crazy when Sophie gets roped into sending her ex on five blind dates!

You’ll laugh, you’ll cry. You might even want to Take My Husband, Please! Available on Amazon in ebook and paperback.

For more about Kimberly Jayne, please visit www.readkimberly.com.

Mindful Daydreaming to Discover Your Story

By Kimberly Jayne
As an author, I use many tools to coax my stories onto the
page. One of my favorites is mindful daydreaming, a sort of self-guided meditation that breaks through mental blocks. I equate this activity to excavating the gray matter, digging past the idea mantle, and settling into the planning and
plotting layers where scenes and sequences are born, and where I mine for story nuggets that will elevate my work to its highest form.

Last week, I needed to mindful daydream a couple of story sequences that were only partially done, and I really wanted to brighten them up with unique details that would boost the tension and the emotions, exacerbate the conflicts, and improve the flow from one scene to the next. And while I didn’t exactly have the ideal place to do it, I did have a few hours in which I was doing nothing: sitting in the center seat on a flight from Austin to Phoenix. 
It worked far better than I’d have guessed, because in less than 15 minutes, I had about five explicit scenes and sequences drawn in my mind—some entirely new. I couldn’t wait to land and get them down on paper.
Want to try it?
Here’s how I do it:
First, I find a quiet place, get my body into a relaxed
position (preferably lying down), and close my eyes. Then I pull out a file
from my psyche—at least, that’s how it feels. In this file are the fragments of
a scene, an unfinished scene that might be giving me trouble, or a scene I want
to enrich. And then I let my imagination run wild. 

Like directing a movie, I visualize character movements, hear dialogue, taste flavors, touch objects, and
generally feel sensations as my character or as an observer of my
character. I spend anywhere from five to twenty minutes in this state,
sometimes replaying the scenes and adding or modifying as I go. At the end of
the session, I quickly write down the new scenes I’ve created so I can flesh them out
as time permits. 

You can see why being surrounded by strangers and squished in an airplane seat may not be the optimal environment for mindful daydreaming, but my experience proves that the more you do it, the better you get at it, and the faster your results no matter where you are. I personally never leave a mindful daydreaming session without new and exciting elements to add to my story. 

Mindful daydreaming has the added benefit of leaving me
feeling refreshed and rejuvenated afterward—and psyched to get back to my
story. Also? Mindful daydreaming helps you work through real-life problems, as you dig to find your personal truths and solutions you might not have been able to see before. 

Try it, why don’t you, and let me know how it works for you.
Kimberly Jayne is the author of romantic comedy and dark fantasy. You can find more about her and her novels at “Read Kimberly Jayne” (http://readkimberly.com). 

Take My Husband, Please! By Kimberly Jayne

After Sophie files for divorce from Will, his unexpected financial apocalypse brings him back under her roof. Awkward! And if that’s not bad enough, Sophie’s new guy—a sexy and successful entrepreneur—is not keen on dating her without proof that Will is truly out of the picture. Sophie and her best friend concoct a brilliant bet to keep Will “occupied,” but things take a surprise turn for the crazy when Sophie gets roped into sending her ex on five blind dates! You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, but you won’t want this story to end.

Also by Kimberly