Today’s the birthday of my wife Emily,
who was born on what’s usually the first day of winter—or, more optimistically,
the time when the days start getting longer. (This year winter comes a day
late.) The way I see it, that just makes her nickname, Sunny, that much more
appropriate.
You have to wonder what Emily expected
when she agreed to marry me. It certainly couldn’t have been Indiana winters,
every medical malady known to man, and the strange, long hours of a third
shifter who’s also a struggling writer.
She’s become my editor, book designer,
nurse, dog wrangler, traveling partner, photographer, best friend, and—oh yeah—the
love of my life. And she puts up with my puns. She doesn’t like them, but she
puts up with them. See, this is how I know she loves me: Why else stick around?
Emily is also my inspiration. I know
without a doubt that without her, I wouldn’t have had as much writing success
as I have—she pushes me, promotes me, and encourages me. Boy, do writers need
encouragement these days. We have seven books out, and two more almost ready to
go … without her I’d have managed maybe three by now. Our self-published
projects would have been impossible for me to do alone.
I’m still on the mend from my sinus
surgery and not feeling great, and there’s overtime this week, so I can’t say
how good of a birthday I’ll give her this year. But, as with the first day of
winter, there’s that glimmer of more sunshine in the future. In other words, by
next year I hope to have my act together. Either way, I’m already a better
person for knowing my Sunny; love does that.
A belated Happy Birthday to Emily!
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