╔═🔳*¨*✶*¨`*🔳 RELEASE BLITZ 🔳*¨*✶*¨`*🔳══╗ When Grifters Come Calling (The Madeline Dawkins Mystery Series) by Cynthia Hamilton
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One unshakable fact that I knew about myself was that I couldn’t write a book if my life depended on it. This belief stemmed from my deep admiration for the authors whose books I gobbled up starting at the age of nineteen. My tastes were eclectic, and I usually had five books in my car so that I’d have access to whatever I was in the mood for at that particular moment. Books were my window to the world, as they are for all readers. I couldn’t bear the thought of not having something to read, partly because I’m one of those people who never want to waste a moment, and partly because I love seeing life from different perspectives.
I took the unexpected path to writing when I was trying to figure out how I could occupy myself if I became bedridden by a mystery illness that had already puzzled a parade of doctors.
At that time I was only two years into the nine-year odyssey to find out what was causing a wide and random range of debilitating symptoms. Fortunately for me, I conveniently forgot I couldn’t write and I dove right into the first book, which I wrote in secret. I finished it a year later―to the day―and immediately started the second book.
Once I began writing, I was on a roll. When things got pretty desperate, health-wise, I decided I wanted to see one of my books in print before I kicked the bucket. This perverse pursuit was added to my list of obligations, which included managing a mortgage company, while my health continued to worsen.
But self-publishing the third book I’d written was a triumph of spirit, followed by a worsening of my pain. It got so bad, I physically couldn’t write anymore. During that time, I started two books but had to abandon them.
Nine years after my weird collection of symptoms started, I got the correct diagnosis: Lyme disease. But since it took so long to accurately diagnose, I now had late-stage Lyme, which is incurable. I was vindicated, in that I wasn’t crazy or imagining these symptoms, but there was nothing I could do to stave off the incessant pain. I started writing again. It allowed me to get out of my body and up into my head, at least for a short while.
So, here I am, more than twenty years since I turned to writing for solace. By some miracle, I’ve gained the upper hand against Lyme. I’m back to living my life at full-throttle, unfazed by the widespread permanent nerve damage. Aside from the pain, which I’ve become accustomed to, I’m just as active as I ever was, and I’m left with this wonderful gift from a monster of a disease. Given how everything has played out, I wouldn’t change a thing if I could. Writing has been the unexpected gift that keeps giving.
Cynthia
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