Hi, Betty! Can you tell our readers a bit about yourself?

Hi friends! Thanks so much for taking time to read this! My name is Betty (lol), I’m a comedian-turned-romance author. I’m a Philly girl, but also grew up partially in Italy. Outside of writing and reading romance, I love makeup; if you ever want to talk about discontinued MAC lipsticks and the iconic Heatherette collection, DM me. My favorite romance subgenre is paranormal. I love all things vampires, shifters, telepaths! Like most of my FMCs, I’m a former emo kid turned indie sleaze millennial turned lady who owns too many tote bags and has a shitty car with an ironic bumper sticker. C’est la vie, and I love it.

When did you first discover your love for writing and stories?

I was always a really imaginative kid, and my love of stories definitely started with movies and sitcoms. I was obsessed with TV as a kid—particularly the “classics” that would play on Nick at Nite. I had an old, tiny TV in my bedroom and I would stay up late watching reruns with the volume super low. The Cosby Show, The Facts of Life, and Roseanne were my favorites—but I also loved Gilligan’s Island, weirdly. I would watch every night and think, I want to do this. How do I do this?! I think I tried writing my first episode of a sitcom when I was eight or nine. I also loved to read—particularly the Dear America books, Harry Potter, and age-inappropriate fiction about World War 2—but there was something particularly exciting about being funny.

Quick lightning round! Tell us:

• The first book you ever remember reading: I had (and still have!) a big book of all the Madeline stories and that went platinum in my childhood bedroom. I think Charlotte’s Web was the first book I ever did a deep reading on. I think there was some form of book report involved.
• The one that made you want to become an author: A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith
• The one that you can’t stop thinking about: A Certain Slant of Light by Laura Whitcomb and Speak  by Laurie Halse Anderson have probably lived rent-free in my head the longest. Lila by Marilynne Robinson is a more recent addition.

Your latest novel, 32 Days in May, is out now! If you could only describe it in five words, what would they be?

Hot! Crackling! Tender! Raw! Italians!

What can readers expect?

Based on everything I’ve been tagged in—to cry! I didn’t realize how emotional this story would be for my readers, but the way it has resonated is incredible. The way people are able to empathize with Nadia is so affirming. Also I think people are crying happy tears too?!

Where did the inspiration for 32 Days in May come from?

I was at a nail salon experiencing the magic of girlhood when someone put on a movie that had Lauren Graham in the opening scene. As a lifelong Gilmore Girls fan, I was like—hello?! I think all of us were excited to see her baby blues. But then LG disappeared and Charlize Theron swooped in. That movie was Sweet November and everyone spent the entire movie laughing at how ridiculous it was, how bad the acting is.  Meanwhile, I spent the last twenty minutes holding my eyes as wide open as possible so no one would see that I was actually sobbing. When the credits rolled I was like, no? That’s……not it, chief. I knew right away we needed a redo.

Were there any moments or characters you really enjoyed writing or exploring?

I loved writing the dinner party at the beach in Italy, starting with the car ride out to Fregene through the outskirts of Rome. I lived in Rome for four years, and never really had the right vehicle for all my thoughts and feelings about it. The further away you get from the center of Rome, the more you get to see the way real Romans live, what the actual city is like. It’s like being in Washington Heights versus Midtown. As a lifelong city girl, I love that stuff. I also loved writing the dinner party scene, because I got to  fill it with free-floating observations, to make the conversation feel organic and bubbling.

Last but not least––my friends and I were extremely obsessed with Stath Let’s Flats the summer I wrote this book, which is why Marco is Greek and why there’s sort of an extended riff on Mediterranean diaspora culture. I felt really empowered to explore how dads are so weird. Also Soph is named after Sophia, played by Natasia Demetriou. It’s extremely fun to have this book as a time capsule for that moment in my sense of humor.

Did you face any challenges whilst writing? How did you overcome them?

To be honest, I was really battling my own autoimmune disease in the latter stages of editing. I had to take time off and get really serious about managing my stress levels. It was like, ok I can keep “powering through” and maybe literally have what happens to Nadia happen to me or I can be so bffr and start to take care of myself. I hate saying no, letting people down, not being there in the best and most bubbly way possible. I had to get comfortable with saying. “No, sorry, I can’t. I’m sick and this is what that looks like.”

What’s next for you?

Weather trading.

Just kidding! I have nothing to announce yet but I am cooking up something extremely fun and sexy.

Lastly, what books are you looking forward to picking up this year?

Oh my goodness––hard question!! I know I’m going to miss some amazing books coming out this year, but here are the romances I can’t wait to see hit shelves:

• Left of Forever by Tarah DeWitt (TDW at her f*cking best, man)
• Holly Jolly July by Lindsay Maple (I blurbed this one and it’s soooo fun)
• Winging It With You by Chip Pons
• Isn’t It Obvious? by Rachel Ruya Katz
• Some Kind of Famous by Ava Wilder
• The Unmagical Life of Briar Jones by Lex Croucher (Had the pleasure of reading this early and it literally blew my mind. Brilliant. Just brilliant.)

Will you be picking up 32 Days In May? Tell us in the comments below!

The post Q&A: Betty Corrello, Author of ’32 Days In May’ appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Betty Corrello’s Summertime Punchline, which is out May 21st 2024.

Then. Delfina Silva-Miller wants one thing: to leave behind Evergreen, New Jersey and never look back. Despite her adoring grandmother’s best efforts, Del can’t bear to live another moment at the whims of her deadbeat dad (so cliché) and her ever-temperamental crush, Eddie Rodriguez (humiliating).

Now. If there’s one thing Del knows how to do, it’s spin her bad luck into a killer joke. After years of hard work, she’s finally landed a coveted spot at a huge comedy festival, molding the often tragic raw material of her life into comedic gold. But when Del loses her job, boyfriend, and apartment in the span of a few hours, she’s forced to pack her bags and return to the home she swore off at eighteen.

Del is determined not to let her history with Evergreen distract her. She has 45 days to perfect a new comedy set and march into her new life. Instead, she marches right into Eddie Rodriguez. But he’s nothing like the boy she left behind ten years ago.

As the festival draws closer, Del is faced with the terrifying possibility that everything she’s ever wanted isn’t as far away as it once seemed.

Vividly evoking the boardwalks and beaches of the Jersey Shore, Summertime Punchline is a hilarious, vulnerable, and sweeping love story celebrating the complicated relationships—romantic and not—that impact our lives, for better or worse.

Some relationships are beyond subconscious—they’re elemental. Molecular. Like the protons inside you are charged differently, and no matter how hard you try, there is no besting the invisible hand that moves your pieces. There are organic puzzles that exist throughout the entire molecular world. So why can’t humans—full of molecules—also reject each other? Because of logic or human will? Because of our stupid brains?

My brain, famously, was full of shit. Shit thoughts. Shit habits. Shit ideas.

Like the shit idea that Edgardo Rodriguez was the sexiest man I had ever laid eyes on when I knew, I knew, in an elemental, molecular way we were incompatible.

I continued to brace myself against the car, pretending the back door handle was the most interesting mechanism I’d ever laid eyes on, while a lifetime’s worth of shame and embarrassment pulsed through me, congregating in my neck and turning me the color of strawberry jam. I yanked at it, hoping—praying—Eddie hadn’t seen me.

I kept up my charade until I could just make out that he was walking away in my peripheral vision. Then, I looked again.

Yep, it was Eddie. Undeniably. Much taller than the last time I had seen him ten years ago, now a full-fledged man.

He even drove a fucking SUV.

I dropped my gaze and shuffled around Cyrus’s car as fast as I could, throwing myself into the front seat. Then, I ducked my head down between the window and the steering wheel, running a fake script through my mind, attempting to give my absolute bizarro behavior some backstory.

Oh no! My shoe came untied. Ugh, gotta take care of that before we drive again, Del! Safety first, you absolute safety nut.

I had not seen this guy—man?—in a decade, but a Silva-Miller never cedes to her enemies. I would know. I’ve interviewed every single Silva-Miller in existence (one—me), and we all agree.

I’m not just some ledger-keeping psychopath. I had four years’ worth of high school memories that proved exactly why someone like Eddie Rodriguez was not the type of guy you ogled at a gas station. The number-one reason being, if he knew I was ogling him at a gas station, he would never let me forget the ogling or the gas station. The Eddie I knew would have purchased a billboard or adopted a highway to commemorate the moment (and my ensuing humiliation) for his pleasure and the pleasure of generations to come.

As I was swimming in shame while hiding in a borrowed car, there were only two things keeping me from melting into a blubbering panic attack:

One—erasing the mental proof of everything I’d felt about Eddie’s face, arms, tattoos, shoulders, and knuckles from my memory.

Two—texting Sam.

I hit send on a long text to her that read something like AjdhfjdshfjksbdohmyGOOOOD and flicked my eyes back up to where there’d been a white Honda SUV containing the man who had once been the bane of my existence. And maybe the most devastating crush I’d ever had.

“Thank God,” I sighed out loud.

Thank God, Eddie was gone.

I watched the back of his car speed by, over the final bridge that stood between me and my hometown, past a sign that read: Welcome to Evergreen! Sometimes sunny, forever green.

I stared at the sign for a long time. Until I saw two and a half signs.

The last twenty-four hours had finally caught up with me, and I was punch-happy. Slap-drunk. The exhaustion had skipped over my body and settled directly in my brain. I was slack-jawed and sleep-deprived, unable to move. Unable to pull out back onto the two-lane highway and finish the longest journey I’d maybe ever taken.

My mind was ping-ponging between New York and Evergreen, dinging off Brainwave and circling around to hit me in the gut, reminding me that I’d been cheated on. Sure, that hurt—a solid blow to my ego—but all I could think was: my jokes.

I slammed on the gas and peeled out of the lot, cutting across the highway and turning down a roughly paved side road. I just needed a second—a moment to catch my breath from what felt like wave after wave of pure, uncut life crashing into me, pounding me back and making my bones feel like sand. My hands were sweating, and my heart felt like it was growing bigger with each pulse, expanding rapidly to fill my entire rib cage.

Just as the gravel and sand road came to an end and I’d unofficially given up hope of things ever working out in my favor again, I spotted the narrow, uphill footpath among some overgrown reeds. A crooked metal sign, mostly hidden by brush, stuck out at a forty-five-degree angle.

Mayor Pollard Memorial Dog Beach.

If you bring it IN, you can bring it OUT.

Finally. A place I could stop and catch my breath. A place I’d always been able to stop and catch my breath.

I’d been frequenting Mayor Pollard’s dog beach since I was a kid. It held thousands of memories that flashed through my mind in a hazy blur, like photographs through a viewfinder: Nan dragging a cooler across the sand as her sun hat caught in the wind. A three-legged race that ended with burns on my elbows and hands, all to save a border collie named Cricket. Slightly wet ham-on-focaccia sandwiches, sand in my teeth, and a bichon-Maltese staring expectantly, inching forward with every bite I took.

I kicked my sneakers off before getting out of the car and scrambling up the hill.

The air smelled the same as it always had: the salty staleness of the ocean inlet mixed with sunshine and echoes of dog pee. The sun danced tirelessly on the surface of the ocean, stretched like a cobalt-blue canvas in every direction. This inlet was calm and shallow, warmer than any other part of the Atlantic this time of year. The water pulled me in with its rhythmic whisper and glistening calm.

I pulled my tank top over my head and pushed off my pants. The tides were little more than a frothy swish-swish across the gray-brown sand and I waded into the water with little resistance. As the water lapped at my chin, and my feet lifted from the velvet-smooth floor, I pushed into a butterfly stroke that took me to where the water turned ice cold beneath my feet. Then, I closed my eyes, floating onto my back and letting the sun warm every inch of me.

I could hear Nan’s voice in the back of my mind.

Are you insane? Are you out of your mind? Swimming alone? Do you have a death wish?

I flipped over and took an enormous breath before diving under the surface, pushing out my breath, and letting the frigid water surround me.

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