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Finafrigginly.

Loss, Covid and betrayal have put me way behind in getting Book 2 in the C’mon Funk Series into the hands of my next editor. It’s taken me 15 years to describe the action-filled months that preceded Funk’s run for mayor (Book 1, May 2019) and those that came during his campaign (Book 2, to be published this summer).

I plan to be much quicker getting Book 3 out the door. The one that speaks to all the incredulous and wonderful things that occurred in my husband’s administration. The full story will come when it comes, but here’s a small taste.
In a nutshell.

Funk made good on the opportunity to do a whole lot of good for a whole lot of people. It’s now umpteen years later, and there are flowers hanging from window boxes on the east side of town, just like in Brookside. The city did not go bankrupt. The crime rate dropped. Schools were addressed. And because they were, the middle class moved back home and property values skyrocketed.

Kansas City is the premier export hub in the United States, shipping goods from our country to the farthest reaches of the world, bulking our city’s balance sheet way into the black. For the folks still afraid of living among blacks, a light rail line goes from the airport all the way out to bumfuck Kansas, bringing them into the city for the workday and back home again at night. Instead of trying to make our city something it isn’t, Funk stressed what we are. A cow town with the greatest jazz music and the best smoked ribs in the entire world—and tourists find that groovy! They’re visiting like nobody’s business. Like, we’ve become a vacation destination on a AAA trip planner! Tourism is so lush that fixed-income retirees are running with it. Vacation-renting their homes on Airbnb, and with the extra cash it generates, they’re getting to see the world when they never thought they could.

In conclusion.

Once Funk became mayor, everyone in Kansas City lived happily ever after.

The end.

Oh c’mon! I’m just messing with you! I’d never dream of spoiling the 3rd book when the 2nd book hasn’t been released yet.

I really must be a New and Better Me.

I’m acting like an adult for a change.

Which is strange. Because when it comes down to it, at 62 years old, I still behave like a child in many ways. Each day my eyes blink awake feels like Christmas morning. I can’t wait to see what the new day will bring. In this case, I can’t wait to see if Book 2 brings you a laugh or two, as more than anything else, that’s what I’m hoping. Offer a bit of relief at the end of your day. A close second, I can’t wait to see if I’ve motivated anyone who is like me—afraid of their own shadow, or, as Funk says, “a skydiver afraid of heights”—to reach for brave and grab the brass ring—despite throat clenching fear. To see if I’ve encouraged anyone to dream big and bold. Go tits to the wall pursuing it, never allowing logistics to get in the way of seeing it to fruition. And I’d really like to know if I’ve extended my reach beyond my childbirth classes. To see if I’ve had any impact on the word “family” becoming an important part of our vocabulary again. And right up there, I’m beside myself to see if I’ve inspired anyone to help finish the revolution that was started in the 60s. To try their hand at running a grassroots campaign, despite lack of experience. Because Lord knows, we really need that right about now. Who the hell wants the top 1% to continue running our country?

Until that 3rd story can be told, I’d love your opinion on the working title for Book 2. In the running is, “C’mon Funk, Move your Ass! How a Demure Little Wife Made Her Husband a Big City Mayor” OR “Notes from the DoubleWide.”

Do you have a preference? Or perhaps a better inspiration?

Here’s to you if you’re surviving the forced introspection that Covid continues to demand, and the accompanying feelings it’s stirring up. For me, I’m trying to stand in gratitude for the lessons, the accelerated growth, for evolving beyond remaining fears and flaws.