I’m preaching to the choir here on these last days of 2024, but the end of the year, the start of the new, lure me to look back, and look ahead.

I’ve been incredibly lucky—I work hard, but I don’t discount the luck—to have been able to build a long career doing something I love. A big gift, especially when I was a single parent, was being able to make a living and stay home, be there when the boys were little, be there when they came home from school.

The business of writing, away from the keyboard—signings, events, media, meetings—took me out in the world. You don’t see much other than hotels, highways and bookstore backrooms when touring, but every now and again, you get a treat.  And another major gift is meeting readers, making that personal connection even if it’s only for moments.

I’d often meet three generations, or sisters, cousins, best pals, who had a special connection through the love of books. I’d meet aspiring writers who just needed a word or two of encouragement. Every once in a while—thankfully not often—I’d meet a different type entirely. Like the woman on the scooter in a Meijer’s store in, I believe, Detroit. For some reason at that moment, the media liaison, the store people, were elsewhere, so I was alone at the table with the reader line, signing, chatting. This is usually fine.

But in this case, the scooter woman was outraged. I was signing Born In Shame, the third book in my Born In trilogy, and she demanded—loudly—to know why I’d written such a filthy book. In hindsight, I think she just went by the title, but she claimed she’d read it, and it was filthy. I did the usual, placating, sorry she didn’t like the book. But she was relentless, insisting over and over that I admit I’d written a filthy book, should be ashamed, and demanding to know why I had. Sex! Filthy sex!

I believe it’s the first and last time I’ve been accused of writing filthy sex, but anyway.

Meanwhile I’ve got a line of stunned readers, and I’m running really low on placating and polite. This went on and on as I couldn’t shake her, even by asking her to move along, and stating firmly, I don’t write filthy books, sorry you found it so.

Blah blah blah.

Well, I did, it was, she insisted, filthy and disgusting, and she claimed: I BUUURRRRNED it. Loud and long on the burn with a nasty sneer to cap it off. So, upset and angry now, I called her a Nazi and told her to go the hell away. I think Security finally got there and took care of that. And the readers in line were so sweet and sorry.

I haven’t forgotten that strange experience—obviously—but am happy to say it’s the exception.

Booksellers all over the country during my touring days would make a point to tell me how nice, happy, patient my readers were, and there’s another gift.

Another is the stories readers have to tell, either in person at an event, or through a note. I hear how my books helped them get through chemo, or an illness, the illness or death of a loved one. More than one have told me they sat and read to a dying parent. What a loving kindness.

The great gift of reading came home to me at a signing years ago in Texas. Two women came up to my table, co-workers. The older one had realized her younger colleague couldn’t read. And she had the kindness and courage to offer to teach her. And the younger had the courage to say yes. During the weeks and months, they became more than co-workers, more than student and teacher. They became good friends. They brought to the table a copy of Irish Thoroughbred. It was the first book the young woman had been able to read, with her friend’s help, from start to finish.

And a reader was born. Someone who’d continued to pick up books, all different kinds of books, and read for pleasure. All because someone had reached out, taking the time to help her learn. I was so honored that my book, my first book, that little 55 thousand word Romance had helped open the door to all the worlds that live inside books.

Recently, at a Girls’ Night Out at Turn The Page, a couple came up to the table. The man told me my book had saved his life. I expected to hear he’d gone through a difficult time, and reading had helped him through it. But this was much, much more.

Richard, a vet, had a hell of a story to tell.

He told me he hadn’t been much of a reader, but as a young Marine serving in Afghanistan he saw Witness In Death, read the back cover and decided to trade with a local merchant outside Kandahar. The book for a pair of sunglasses. He liked it, and got in the habit of carrying it in a Ziploc bag in his cargo pocket. He’d take it out now and again, read a little because he could focus on the story. He related to Eve Dallas.

I could see that. She’s a woman of courage, a warrior who takes her duty and her oath seriously. And doesn’t shirk either. And Richard did the same.

His mom sent him the rest of the series up to that point, but he continued to carry that particular book with him.

And one day, he came back from a brutal firefight where he lost friends and fellow Marines. He laid his rack, took the book out of his pocket to quiet his mind. And saw the bullet sticking out of it. Obviously surprised, he held it up and told his friend: Shot my book!

The book took the bullet, and he didn’t.

His friend deemed it his lucky charm and insisted Richard continue to carry it. He did just that, all through his tour in Afghanistan, then again in 36 months in his tour in Iraq.

Eventually luck ran out, and he was seriously injured.

He suffered hearing loss, and requires a service dog. He likes to listen to the In Death books through his hearing aids, they quiet his mind. He can focus on the stories, the characters, and his ears don’t ring, he doesn’t think back to war and battles, but stays in the world of the book.

I can’t tell you what I felt when he told me his story. Shocked, grateful, horrified, fascinated, all of that and more. But when he showed me the book, and I held it, looking at those ugly little holes going through page after page? Overwhelmed isn’t a big enough word. He stood there, handsome and smiling, with his lovely wife, Christine, because he decided to trade a pair of sunglasses for a book, and he’d carried a book in his pocket because he’d  found the story in it took him away for a time from the terrible demands of war.

I signed the book, an obvious and oh so worthy exception to the rules. When they left, he thanked me for writing a thick book. I remember him saying that, and I remember his story. But I honestly don’t remember what I said to him. My brain fuzzed over at the sight of those ugly holes going through words I’d written in the quiet safety of my own home.

So if I didn’t thank them, let me do that now. Thank you, Richard and Christine, for your service and your sacrifice. I know Eve Dallas would say the same.

The gift of reading, the worlds and possibilities of books. As one year ends and another begins, I wish us all many hours of pleasure and peace within the pages.

Nora