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First, a quick update: I’ve been working hard on a trilogy of books for Harlequin Blaze, a series I seem to have been working on forever.  Life has been intervening in a huge way, and I’m finally learning how to roll with it instead of letting it roll me.  Only took me thirty-something years, but there we go. I’m really excited about moving forward with the writing projects, especially when I’ve got a YA trilogy, an urban fantasy series, and a tween chapter book series all clamoring to get out of my head.

After a series of stressful incidents in the past two years, I found myself questioning everything.  I mean, everything.  Especially when, having an ugly argument with someone close to me, a nasty slash came out:

“What the f*** do you know?  YOU WRITE PORN FOR A LIVING!”

Yeah.

Said friend almost immediately apologized, looked just as surprised that the statement popped out as I was hearing it.  Nonetheless, it hit me right in the tenders, as it were.  One of those barbs that sank in and promptly got infected.

Suddenly, all my insecurities jumped in.  They ganged up and started questioning:

1) why I was writing sexy, which I’d never really intended, never felt comfortable with, and don’t seem to be successful at,

2) why I was thinking of writing funny, which I’m really comfortable with, but which no one can sell at gunpoint right now, and

3) why I’m writing at all, when there are bills piling up, this “pursuing your bliss” is a ton of crap, especially when

4) it’s not like I’m curing cancer, or helping the planet, or doing anything at all resembling “being of service” which would at least make this whole pointless exercise somehow noble.

(My insecurities, I’ve noticed, are bullies.  But well organized bullies.  Like the mob.)

Like I said, I’ve been going through a lot.  People outside my situation have been looking at me with shock and horror and giving me the “man, you must need a drink” look. It hasn’t been fun.

The thing is, I don’t drink.  I don’t do anything chemical.  I’ve even cut back on my chocolate intake after discovering too much sugar gives me migraines. (A sad, sad day indeed!)

Instead, I read.

During all this, I’ve been mainlining J.D. Robb.  I now own every single book in the “In Death” series, and for a while there, I was reading one book a day, starting over when I got to the last book.  Before that, it was Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files series.  I’ve read the P.C. Cast House of Night series, the Twilight series, J.R. Ward, Sherrilyn Kenyon… the list goes on and on.

I did whatever needed doing. I took care of basics: my son, myself. And I read my ass off.

I’m convinced it saved my sanity.  In a roundabout way, it really did save my life.Which brings me to the epiphany.

Novels are shoulders to cry on, friends who “get” us, things to help us get through it.  When I feel like crap, my human friends know — and recommend what to read.

My friends, human and literary, got me through it.

I’m proud of being a fiction writer.  What we do is important.  We do help people.  Hell… we do save lives.

Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.