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.
