Since the book came out, I have been asked why I did not describe the magic that one feels in the presence of women of a certain age.  How would you do that?  You can’t catch it with adjectives; you have to see it in action, feel the wise, welcoming warmth, experience the ease with which romance grows. That’s the job of the biographer, or memoirist, or novelist.

This book is about how women reached the stage in life when the magic happens.  Their accounts, which cover many years, feel like slow-developing tricks–at the end many pull a happy bunny out of what has often been a shabby hat. I did not ask anyone to describe how she feels she now wows men.  What could she say?

I have been thinking back on the characters of my own novels (all of which were finished before I reached 50).  In Honk If You Love Aphrodite I have the ultimate magician, Aphrodite herself, whose mere glance upends a mortal’s life via his heart (and groin).

But gods never grow up.  They don’t have to.  They remain as arrogant, selfish, and entitled as teenagers.  At the end of this book She encounters–and impersonates–a woman (of late child-bearing age) who is the true love of the man whose life She has been manipulating. I did not know then what I know now, but I think I got this scene right.

Honk If You Love Aphrodite

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