It started with a wild, impossible thought. I remember staring at my notes for what was supposed to be just one novella and realizing it wasn’t enough. There were too many women, too many stories, too many nights under the strobe lights of The Glass Heel waiting to be told. Forty-eight. That was the number that came to me—one novella for every weekend in a year. I laughed when I said it out loud. Am I really doing this? Forty-eight? But even as I asked the question, I knew the answer. I had...
