Angela Lam's Blog

When I tripped and fell on New Year’s Eve morning, I thought the only damage I had done was to my jaw, which I couldn’t close after slamming it against the asphalt. I ran to the dentist, who was only down the street, and after an exam and a panoramic X-ray, I was dismissed with the diagnosis of a soft tissue injury. “My main concern is that you have a concussion,” the dentist said.

A week later, after I couldn’t walk a straight line and couldn’t tolerate sunlight or sound, I visited my primary care physician, who confirmed I had a mild traumatic brain injury, otherwise known as a concussion.

The concussion, which should have healed within two weeks to three months, is still lingering. During those early months, my doctor said to avoid screens, from TV to cell phones to computers. Additionally, my doctor said, “No reading and no writing.”

“No books?”

“You can have someone read to you, but you can’t read yourself.”

I had never been one to listen to audiobooks. Having had an auditory processing disorder since childhood, I relied heavily on sight more than the average person would. Now, with no other alternative, I decided to try listening to stories…and quickly learned the value of the written word.

When I listened to someone tell me a story, I focused on the plot and the personality of the speaker. I did not stop and say, “Please, repeat that sentence again. It sounds so beautiful, I want to remember it by heart.” But when I read on my own, I paused and copied out my favorite passages, word by word, so I could revisit the infinite beauty again and again, even after the book was returned to the library or given to a friend.

But my primary care physician’s restriction of no reading, no writing, and no screens was one I vigilantly followed, hoping to speed up my recovery.

The concussion didn’t only affect my ability to enjoy the written word, but it also impacted my overall sense of language. My husband complained, “You can’t describe things anymore.” He was right. I couldn’t. I fumbled, grasped, and always fell short, fiddling with substitutions. Instead of saying, “Could you please pull out the dresser so I can fit the plug into the outlet?” I pointed like a toddler and said, “I need help with that thingy.” My husband threw up his arms. “What is ‘that thingy’? You’re pointing to a blank wall.” And I would pantomime what I wanted to say.

I couldn’t blame getting older. I knew the difference between perimenopausal brain fog, where the word was misfiled in my brain, and memory loss from the concussion, where the word was missing from the file in my brain, apparently forever.

I retreated to a caveman-like existence, making art to communicate.

And, while that art blossomed into a temporary stream of income, it could not replace the love of my life—stories, and the written words that formed them.

Over time, with the help of neurological therapy, I slowly regained the ability to tolerate screens, although I still need to limit my computer time to one hour. I was also able to pick up a book and read for fifteen minutes at a time before my left eye throbbed with shooting pain. I tried my hand at writing, starting with five minutes, and working my way up to a half-hour before my face tightened in extreme pain. Some days were better than others. Most days I needed more rest.

During those months without the written word, I was primarily off work. While my husband said, “You can get used to doing nothing,” the void left without language, without writing, without words was too much like living in a world of black, white, and gray. The written word was color, all the colors, from magenta to fuchsia, from sage green to sea green, from sapphire blue to sky blue, and everything in between.

When I first started reading again, I didn’t want to read just any old thing. I picked up the classics I hadn’t read in high school or college. Lolita and The Color Purple. I wanted to experience words of the highest caliber, to highlight every sentence that struck me as gold, and daydream about someday writing just as well, even though I knew from the lingering effects of the concussion that I never would. Each paragraph was like biting into a decadent piece of chocolate—rich and sinfully delicious. I savored every syllable.

The percentage of adults who are readers is minuscule (don’t ask me for the latest statistics, I don’t know, but it’s tinier than you think), and for the longest time, I was involuntarily part of that demographic. I know you can live without the written word, and most of the world is content doing so. That world is bland, tasteless, colorless, and odorless. I want to always be living in a universe that is salty-sweet or sour-bitter, scented with fresh mint or thick with the bite of perspiration. I want to read and write the world, even if the only words I write are “I love you,” because when I am alone, late at night, I can revisit those words and feel those feelings all over again. I can, essentially, live twice as well as everyone else.

Another chapter ended, and my artwork is no longer for sale at Made Local or Santa Rosa Art Center.

I'm waiting to see if I'll be teaching writing this fall or winter.

In the meantime, I am trusting the process and enjoying the bardo of living.

Until recently, I've been painting more than I've been writing.

Locally, I've been selling my work in retail outlets and galleries, but you can purchase my work online.

See more here: https://www.angelalamwriter.com/event...

Do you love to read, but are unsure if you can write?

Try a low-pressure, asynchronous online course with yours truly starting July 8, 2025.

Explore fiction, nonfiction, memoir, and other forms of writing. Have fun with words in a supportive, encouraging, and informative atmosphere over six weeks.

Details here: https://wp.writingclasses.com/courses...

Since I've suffered a concussion, I've been unable to read and write.

Luckily, or unluckily, my latest novel, Switched, had been turned in to my editor in October, three months before the accident.

I don't know how long my recovery will take or if it will be complete or only partial. But I invite you to pre-order Switched, not knowing at this time whether or not it will be my last novel.

During my one-month sabbatical, I set out to write the first draft of an 80,000-word thriller.

But every—single—word felt painful.

My brother-in-law, a professional comedic sketch writer, suggested I was out of practice. “Give it a week, and the words will flow.”

One week after another, the words ground to a halt.

Nothing.

I dreaded the blank page.

Maybe I should do something else. Paint. Read. Take up another hobby.

But everyone encouraged me to soldier on.

I thought...

During my one-month sabbatical, I set out to write the first draft of an 80,000-word thriller.

But every—single—word felt painful.

My brother-in-law, a professional comedic sketch writer, suggested I was out of practice. “Give it a week, and the words will flow.”

One week after another, the words ground to a halt.

Nothing.

I dreaded the blank page.

Maybe I should do something else. Paint. Read. Take up another hobby.

But everyone encouraged me to soldier on.

I thought...

This is the first time I’ve had two books released in the same month.

No Amends is a dark psychological thriller.

Last Chance is a sweet contemporary romance.

I wrote No Amends a year ago after a devastating turn of events. It is my most plot-driven story based on two characters and what they desire. The novella originally won first place in a writing contest but I declined accepting the award and the subsequent publication once I realized I could not negotiate the rights I wanted. ...

Here is my bookshelf on Shepherd, a website where readers can discover books shelved by their interests and recommended by their favorite authors.

My bookshelf includes the 5 best books about Sociopaths & Liars, including a brief mention of my debut thriller, No Amends.

During my senior year of college, I wrote a short story, “Taikido,” a fantastical fable about a woman trapped between her marriage to a wizard and her love for another being. When I sat down with Professor Rosen to discuss the merits and challenges of the story, I wasn’t prepared to hear his feedback.

“Angela, you always write these happy endings, but you have this darkness inside of you,” he said. “I believe your true power as a writer lies in embracing that darkness.”

Frowning, I clutche...