The Gift of Books

A lot of people ask me why I started writing. The answer is pretty simple: I kind of had to.

See, here’s the thing: I was on the fast track to the life I always dreamed of when I was diagnosed with a chronic, painful, organ-destroying disease that changed everything. Suddenly, I found myself bedridden for days at a time, crying more tears than I like to admit to people, and constantly trying to figure out how to answer those inevitable, “So…when are you going to have children?” questions. On a good day the answer was, “It’s in God’s hands, not mine,” and on a bad day the answer was a shrug and a rush to the nearest bathroom or any place with Kleenex.

During the hardest times, I turned to books. I was most attracted to humorous romantic fiction, because laughing made things seem a little…less awful. I devoured those books and when I couldn’t seem to find any more that were clean enough to read I knew what I had to do: I had to write the kind of book that was saving me. Because maybe someone, somewhere was struggling or suffering or just plain overwhelmed and could use a good read. So you see, this is not only why I write, but why I write what I do.

Oh, I still have those days when I cry and wonder why things turned out this way, but mixed in with those days are the wonderful moments of gratitude for the gift of books, the gift of humor, and the gift of joy.