My husband died suddenly in 2011. I found myself, after 15 years of being at home with my children, parenting alone, with a part-time job that would never support our lifestyle. There was nowhere for all the crazy, and all the fear, to go but down on paper. As a writer, it was my only outlet.
After my diagnosis 12 years ago, my initial response was, “well let’s go!” I just wanted to start my treatment and get well. I had no idea that stage IV was the final stage. That there would be days where I just wanted to give up, days where I felt hopeless and days where my best friend kept added hope to my life.
“You are not famous enough to write a book about cancer.”
Although not phrased with those exact words, the inference was there. Loud and clear. From other bloggers. From publishing agents. From authors. From experts in the industry. They didn’t mean to be cruel, they wanted me to be realistic.