I walked up to my wife today with tears streaming down my cheeks, trying to get the words out. She doesn’t see me like this often, so of course she was worried. “I’m okay,” I told her. Then tried to explain what was going on.

I had my laptop in my hand, an email open on the screen. It was an invitation to a “Fuck Cancer” party for a reader who is about to start a very brutal treatment. She’ll be in the hospital for the next four to five months, pretty much in isolation because of how weakened her immune system will be.

A friend of hers let me know about the party because apparently I’m one of her favorite writers. She takes my books to her doctor’s appointments and to previous treatments, returning to WOOL especially for strength and hope. And yup — tears are flowing hours later as I type this out. Forgive the typos. World blurry and all that.

I still think of myself as a reader who enjoys dabbling in the writing world. Getting emails like this — and there have been way too many of them over the years, often with cancer as the damned antagonist — is way beyond humbling. It staggers me. Thinking of the suffering someone is going through, the seriousness of their fight, the beauty of their lives, the love of their families, and that somehow some world I made up has brought them some semblance of joy, hope, strength … it’s a lot to digest.

I spent time with some readers this weekend at DragonCon, and I also ran into some of my favorite authors, a few of whom made me want to become a writer. I heard myself say, “You’re one of the reasons I wanted to be a writer,” and then an hour later I’d hear someone tell me, “You’re one of the reasons I wanted to become a writer.” It’s a mind-fuck, being in the middle of a chain of inspiration like this. I forget the impact our words can have; I only remember the impact others’ have had on me.

I’m not sure I could have written a single thing had I known that people might carry it with them to chemo. Or that they’d teach the novel in a WFA program. Or that someone would ever think of me as their favorite author. It’s a bit much. And yet … I’ve been on the other side so many times. Reading has sustained me through hard years. Books kept me company when I was alone at sea. When I was in a school that didn’t really fit me. Before I found my tribe. Days when I needed an escape.

Here’s to everyone out there whose words are lifting someone up or whisking them away. Keep writing. Keep telling your stories. One day it’ll hit you too.

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