I don’t really get it. When I got my first m/m book (The Telling by Eden Winters) I was so struck by the story that I had to write this person and tell her what I thought of the story. To be honest, I never expected a reply because I just assumed that writers were like actors and rock stars. They were so far above us mortals that we’d have to burn virgin sacrifices in their honor just to get them to acknowledge our meager existence.

Much to my surprise, Eden wrote me back a short time later and thanked me for the letter, telling me how much she appreciated hearing from me.

After that, I wrote every time I read a book that touched me in some way. From those writings I have found that authors are, by and large, normal, regular people who are excited to hear from us ‘normal’ folks. One of them even told me I was her very first fan letter. Considering how much I loved the story, I just didn’t get that at all.

From such writings have sprung several friendships. Eden became a friend and mentor, Sjd Peterson, Ms. Harner, Mr. Webb, K-Lee Klein, Anne Tenino, Amy Lane, KC Wells and others have actually become people who I can turn to and who, in turn, know that I will do what I can to help them.

Mr. Webb said it best for me. “We are a small community. We take care of each other.” He was completely right. I’ve had the encouragement and support from people whose work is amazing and compelling and riveting. Something I longed to have ever since I picked up a pen back when I was fourteen.

Now? I’m a soon to be published author. Every single person I’ve come across has been nothing but wonderful and kind. They’ve guided me when I drifted, they moved me back on the path when I strayed. The lovingly smacked me when I became frustrated and sure that I simply could not do it.

I’m still not comfortable with my writing. I’ll never be Shakespeare (or even the equivalent of any of the authors I’ve mentioned), but I’m part of a family and I have to say, it really feels pretty damn good.