I've known them for years; however, they have never met. My fantasy was to invite them to a fun-loving weekend in Santa Fe. There was no doubt in my mind as to whether or not they would like each other. The question was, "How the hell will I get eight woman to agree to come to New Mexico at the same time?" Within a week they had arranged their schedules and the adventure began. All they knew about one another was what I had told them. I wanted them to become friends. Maybe it would be helpful if we wrote a tidbit about ourselves. Their responses to my query were positive. Now, feeling quite cocky, my imagination went wild. What if we all fess up to doing something wicked, taboo, or better yet, divulge a take to your grave secret? Fearing they would tell me to forget that idea without having time to consider it, I emailed rather than phoned. It didn't take long before I heard back. They asked for clarity, "Really, a secret?" There was some hem-hawing, a few protestations, and one said she just couldn't do it. But in the end, she did, and so did everyone else. Four years flew by, and numerous times we met and questioned our reasons for continuing. Who would even be interested in our stories? Nevertheless, we kept on writing and rewriting. Finally, there was no more to write. This elephant gestation bore a griping anthology, and after months of fixating on glaring, over-sized computer screens, our telepathic doubts began to seize our exuberating thoughts of becoming authors. "Are we setting ourselves up to fall into an abyss because this book is about to deliver our sacrificial selves for all to devour? Was this what we wanted? What would our families, friends, and others think?" The impact of our endeavor hit hard. The truth exposed was more than the get-to-know-me stories originally shared by friends during a girl's weekend in the Land of Enchantment.