From Nurse to Novelist

Since the day I learned how to form words using a pencil and paper, with the clumsy, immature handwriting of a toddler, I have been fascinated by the power of the written word. As a child, I spent hours in the public library, huddled in the corner reading book after book, then signing out more to take home and read under the covers with a torch so my parents didn’t know I wasn’t sleeping. Through my teenage years I wrote short stories, novellas, poetry, anything to express everything I saw, knew or experienced. Putting pen to paper, or, more commonly these days, typing onto a computer screen, became a catharsis for everything life threw at me.

When I left school, I trained as a Registered Nurse, specifically, a pediatric RN, and dedicated the next 20 years of my life to looking after sick, and sometimes dying children. One question I heard over and over from desperate parents is Why us? Why our child? I learned very early on there’s no answer to that question. How could there be? All the books I’d ever read, fiction, non-fiction, educational, spiritual, every possible genre, none of them held the answer that could uniformly console every desperate parent.

And then I became that parent. My youngest son died suddenly, in my arms, and all my medical knowledge and pediatric experience couldn’t save him. Why me? Why my child?

Like anyone living through grief, life was temporarily nothing more than an agonizingly painful haze, tinged with condolences, and my mind anchored on one frequently repeated word; angel. 

I began to learn about angels, the myth, the stories, the unexplained, and found consolation in the idea of their existence. And so the idea for the Reborn Trilogy started to take shape. It’s not a self-help book, it’s a work of fiction based on human spirit and hope, not scientific fact, but it’s written with an idea that lightens the soul, and leaves you contentedly wondering ‘What if..?’


2 thoughts on “From Nurse to Novelist

    1. Thank you for your kind wishes, John. It is indeed the kind of loss that carves a permanent scar in your heart, one that is a permanent reminder of the person you were before, and a guide for the person you become as a result.


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