After our twin boys were born in Boston, my husband and I moved back to Florida, primarily so I could stay home with my children. And also so my mother could provide free babysitting every weekend. For life.

Ten minutes into my new gig, I realized the key to emotional happiness and domestic bliss was simple. I had to turn off the television.

Commercials kill a new mom's self-esteem. Viewers are either bombarded with ways to earn a degree from home or endlessly urged to call now if hurt in an auto accident.

Between commercials, trying to find missing socks, and getting babies to appreciate Mozart - no wonder full-time moms start drinking in the afternoon.

That's why I decided to write. A creative outlet that encouraged original thought allowed me to retain all necessary brain cells for future endeavors. I felt like I was doing something productive when my children went down for their naps.

And so, Olivia's Kiss was born.

The novel came pouring out of me and I was soon up at night, after everyone fell asleep and the dishes were done, writing and re-writing drafts until perfect.

Upon completion, I tried to read my work with a critical eye, but relied on trusted family and friends to provide real critiques. I even joined an on-line writer's group filled with professional and published writers. Their advice and opinions were invaluable.

After being convinced several times over that my work had merit, I queried literary agents. Like most fledgling writers, I could wallpaper my office with rejection letters. However, after several failed attempts, I finally found a New York agent to represent me.

"Great story," she said. "I loved it. But we need to market this novel as a memoir. Memoirs sell. Will you be all right with telling publishers this was based on actual events?"

I've never been so tempted in my life. Ethics and values can easily go out the window when contemplating a possible book deal. While visions of Oprah danced through my head, I envisioned life on the best seller list.

Then I realized I could never lie about my childhood or pretend my novel was anything other than a fabrication created while potty training toddlers.

Besides, my mother would kill me.

"The publishers won't go for it," my agent said after I told her the truth. "We can't market a novel from some unknown housewife from Florida."

Ouch.

When another agent told me the same sad news, I put my story away and tried to forget about it. Fast forward a few years when I found myself in Colorado, unpacking boxes and re-discovering old treasures.

Treasures like Olivia's Kiss.

A friend suggested I put the story online and let the world decide if mine was worth reading. After procrastinating for a few months, I put it out there and crossed my fingers, hoping people would like it.

I never dreamed the feedback would be so terrific. And it's only been a few weeks.

Checking my daily site statistics, I see that people are reading my words from all over the world. Whether down the street or an ocean away, there's an audience out there. An audience more concerned with storytelling than the author's personal life.

And so Olivia's Kiss has found a home and readers online. Which is so much better than a box.