As February unfolds around us, I've been reflecting on the magic of books – both reading and writing them. These thoughts are inspired by a stubborn back sprain that makes moving anything but my eyes a careful negotiation.
Books are remarkable in their ability to transport us elsewhere when we need it most. As I write to you today, I've been thinking about how certain books become timestamps in our lives, marking moments both good and bad. I can still picture myself curled up with Nancy Drew mysteries during snowy winters when tension filled our house, finding solace in solving puzzles alongside Nancy. I remember the weight of Ken Follett's "Eye of the Needle" in my hands as I sat alone in my dorm room in Nice, a young flutist far from home. The "Poisonwood Bible" kept me company through an eight-hour emergency room wait (who knew an ant bite could lead to cellulitis?), and Lucy Foley's "The Paris Apartment" became my anchor during those haunting hours in the ICU, watching over my husband as he battled Guillain-Barré syndrome.
These memories remind me why I write – to offer you that same escape, that same solace I've found in books throughout my life.
Now for some exciting news – I've just finished a locked room mystery that's off to the editor soon! Be on the look out for Death on the Isle, perfect for fans of Agatha Christie and cozy mysteries:)
What are some books you can remember the exact time and place that you read them? Comment below....