I go to books. Any time I have a question, looking for clarity, want to know, need a break, must get motivated, crave commiseration, for anything and everything, I go to books. There are many books about writing books, many written by successful authors. A few of those have been weaved into the fabric of my writing world that have nudged, prodded, and hit me over the head as I’ve thought about writing, stopped and started, stopped and started again. They have come into my life in a specific order, at specific times, for specific reasons.

A long time ago, I knew I wanted to be a writer. Of non-fiction. I understood language and grammar, and I could report and analyze facts, persuade if necessary. In my view, there was little emotion or imagination to writing non-fiction, which was fine by me because coming up with something entirely on my own was terrifying. It’s a narrow way of thinking on all fronts, I know.