Christmas 1970. My older sister (historical novelist Stephanie Cowell) sends the bound edition of “The Lord of the Rings” as a Christmas gift to my parents. Restless and bored, I take the first book into my bedroom. Eventually, with the aid of a dictionary, I slog my way through all three volumes. At eight years old, I am in love for the first time with Strider, a king disguised as a wanderer. My passion for Tolkien makes me, the classic bookworm with glasses, even more unfit for socializing. All I want to do is talk about Middle Earth.
My bedroom and a stack of books become my sanctuary.
I spend my twenties and thirties catching up on lost time, getting to know people’s peculiarities, secrets, strengths and weaknesses. (In other words, going through a lot of break ups.) Distracting.
Now, ensconced in the safety of Switzerland, with a literary-minded husband and a playful pit-bull mix, I’ve got time to concentrate on writing. Like most authors, I have my day jobs: an acupuncture practice and lab work at a hospital.
But I never forgot the excitement of a good story.
And that’s what I hope to share with you.