I read a memoir this week, one with a similar style to the book I was going to write in 2015. I knew it would be emotional for me to read this book because it would awaken the ache to write my own story.
At the bookstore, I bought a stack of copies of this book to give to friends. When the cashier saw them, she said the cover was beautiful. I agreed, and then she asked if I was the author.
I was completely affected by this. “No,” I stammered.
“But I should be,” I thought.
The same day someone invited me to a writing retreat. I didn’t dare say yes. But I took it as another sign.
That evening I was surprised by my tears when I told Richard how I ache to write. He just said, “It’s a good thing I just ordered you a new laptop. It arrives tomorrow. That should help.”