The other day a family member—one of many family members who don’t exactly understand my propensity to put prose to paper—asked me why I write books.

I found that the best explanation lies in the reasons that I don’t write. I don’t write for fame or fortune. I will never be famous or wealthy because of the books I write. I don’t write because I want attention or accolades. I get all the attention and praise that I need from my wonderful husband, Rick. I don’t write because I am a bored housewife with nothing better to do. I am far too busy every day to accomplish all that needs to be done, and I will often beg, borrow or steal any spare minutes that I can.

The truth is, I write because I love to tell stories. I take a great deal of pleasure in entertaining others. I take pride in providing a temporary respite for those who need it most. I am moved beyond words when something I create offers someone a means of escape from reality even it’s only for a little while. So, if I write something that catches your interest and reading it brings you joy, takes your mind off your problems or helps you to relax, then all of my efforts will have been worth it.

I don’t write for myself; I write for you.