I did something last year that few people know about.. yet.

In 2023, my husband was diagnosed with cancer. That summer, we spent weeks far away from home for his treatment. It was a very difficult time. While my husband was recovering in the hospital, I stayed in a hotel nearby. I’d pass the days with him in his hospital room, and see friends occasionally, which was wonderful. But in the evenings, when visiting hours were over, I would read. I had discovered the beauty of romance novels, a new-to-me genre that became a lifeline, a way of coping through the trauma.

I poured through so many novels that summer, I lost count. I blew through them like tissues. My reading taste has always skewed towards cookbooks and science-y nonfiction. I hadn’t known the pure joy that a really good love story can impart. The blissful escapism that comes from a happily ever after, HEA in the parlance of the genre, or a happy for now (HFN) became my solace. A soothing balm for my anxious, aching soul.

Sometime after finishing the umpteenth romance novel, I began to wonder whether I could perhaps write my own. A book based, in part, on all that my husband and I were going through. Knowing how much these books had helped me when I truly needed hope the most, I wanted to try. I asked my daughter, an accomplished short story writer, what she thought? She told me to go for it. And so, that summer, I began jotting down notes and characters, as ideas began to coalesce and a new tale took form.

Sadly, at the time, I didn’t get far. When we returned home, I started school again, working towards a nutrition degree. Daily, first thing in the morning, I drove my husband to his adjuvant treatment. I would sit in the waiting room, playing Wordle, trying hard not to think about what was happening. I was also learning about cancer in school. None of this was conducive to romance.

I continued writing, though, when I could. I even reached out to a friend-of-a-friend, a romance author in Boston, who read the little bit I’d written and encouraged me to keep going. After graduation, I resumed in earnest, while applying for nutrition jobs that were very few and far between. I interviewed for one job, a fantastic role working for a nonprofit, one I really wanted and thought I’d be perfect for. But, I didn’t get it. I was “far too creative,” they said.

Not being able to get a real job in my field after I’d invested two years to earn yet another degree was incredibly disappointing. At my age, it wasn’t worth spending another four years and thousands of dollars to finish a bachelors in nutrition, and then a masters, in order to become an RD. I would never recoup the investment before retiring. It made zero financial sense.

All of this, coming on the heels of my husband’s cancer diagnosis, made me feel nothing short of awful. I felt fairly worthless, in fact. I’d worked so hard to earn that degree, hoping it would offer me greater employment opportunities. I’d graduated summa cum laude, for Pete’s sake! But nope. Working in nutrition without an RD credential is very, very hard.

Having no luck getting a job was also, at that point, scary. Part of the reason I’d gone back to school to study nutrition was to be able to WORK. To have a steady paycheck and, if needed in future, medical benefits. I was acutely aware of the curveballs life can throw when you least expect them.

When I didn’t get that job, I was really sad. I’d applied for many jobs, most of them nutrition-adjacent, if at all, and most of them, I’d been ghosted. Truthfully, I fell into a funk.

A dear friend and her husband visited; my friend herself had been fighting cancer for two years. She’s a no-nonsense, straight shooter whose “talking to” recalibrated my psyche. She told me to stop trying to squeeze myself into jobs that were never meant for me and to do what I was made for. Writing. I have always been a writer. So why was I trying to do something else? She said by the time I’d see her next, in August, she expected a full outline of my book.

After she left, I dove headfirst into writing. My dear friend had lit a fuse inside me that burst into scorching flames. I channeled all of my sadness, angst, and burning creativity into the process. I wrote the outline. And when that was done, I began filling it in. I took all of the work I’d already completed and put it into the story where it made sense, discarding the rest. “Too creative”? Oh yeah, well, I’LL SHOW YOU TOO CREATIVE. It was my fuel.

I wrote steamy sex scenes. I wrote scenes that made me cry. I wrote scenes that made me cackle out loud. And when I had written every single day for months, from May until August, I wasn’t just finished the outline. I was finished my book. I had a completed 330-page manuscript. An 85,000-word contemporary romance with characters as real to me as my own children. It’s a story that’s stolen my heart, one I fell in love with and hope you all do, too. I cannot wait to share. Wish me luck. XO