I look out of the window. The clouds are hanging low and the sky is dark even though it’s barely noon. On days like this, I like to curl up with a good book in bed and keep the world and all of its problems an arm’s length away. But something is different about today. As worried as I am about Aiden and his situation, I feel proud about what I have accomplished. It hasn’t been that long since I decided to become a full-time author and here I am actually doing it. I’m actually facing all of my fears and insecurities. Don't get me wrong. They’re still there in the back of my head. You know, all those thoughts that say that you’re not good enough. That maybe you shouldn’t even try. What's the fucking point? No one will like your work anyway. No, finishing this book was my way of saying a big fuck you to all of that. And I have to celebrate.

I head to my closet and pull on a pair of black tights, boots, and a sweater. I may not be a huge fan of cold weather, but at least it gives me the opportunity to get away with not wearing a bra without it being too obvious. I grab a light waterproof jacket and put a journal and my favorite Uni-ball vision pen into my purse. This isn’t a work outing that’s why I’m not bringing my computer. No, the journal is there only if inspiration strikes me.

In the hallway, I debate whether I should bring the umbrella as well and finally decide that I should. The jacket might be waterproof, but I don’t want to start out this fall laying up in bed with the flu for a week because I got soaked everywhere else.

I slush my way through the New York City streets, avoiding eye contact with all the other poor souls who are out in this weather. Most are dog walkers, but there are also a few willing participants like I am. Finally, I reach 828 Broadway Avenue, right between 12th and 13th Streets. When I see the sign for the bookstore across the street, my heart fills with joy. This is my happy place. Other people love bars and restaurants and malls, but I’d take a used bookstore any day of the week and twice on a Sunday. Strand Bookstore may be the largest bookstore in New York, if not on the East Coast. It definitely feels that way. It’s a large labyrinth place that smells of tattered covers and much loved old books. They are famous for being so big, their tagline is that they sell books by the foot and that they have eighteen miles of books. The place has been around since 1927, which always makes me feel very privileged to have the opportunity to be here. I wander in between the aisles, briefly looking at the categories.

The thing is that what I love most about used bookstores is that, unlike regular chain stores like Barnes and Noble, you go in them never knowing what you’re going to find. Their selection changes constantly as people donate and exchange their books for new books and a book that was here a few days ago may be gone today.

I head to the fiction section and then slowly make my way to the romance section. I look over the spines and run my fingers over the edges of the well-read books. People have loved these books dearly while they read them and then they let them go before moving on to another book.

Some people hold onto books forever; they keep every book they read. But I’m a pretty voracious reader and there’s no way that I would ever have time for that. I’ve actually started reading a lot on my phone, downloading directly from Amazon. And as much as I love reading books on my phone, sometimes there’s nothing like sitting on a couch with a cup of tea and a good book. Actually turning those pages that other people have turned - it makes me feel like I’m part of something bigger. Something that’s not just bigger than I am, but that’s bigger than all of us. I’m not a very religious person, but it makes my heart swell and makes me feel almost spiritual.

As I make my way aimlessly down the aisles, I pick up the books that look interesting to me, read the back covers, and feel them in my hands. I wonder what their writers are doing right now, at this very moment, and I wonder if they felt as excited as I did finishing their first novel. I really hope so. Otherwise, what would be the point?

Walking here through the aisles of books reminds me of the place that I worked in during the summer between my ninth and tenth grade years in high school. Now, I can’t even remember what that place was called and it was much smaller than the Strand. It was probably around seven hundred square feet of space, with every available space of wall filled with books. That bookstore specialized in genre fiction and they only carried used romance, science fiction, fantasy, horror, and thriller books. They also had a big book exchange program where loyal customers could come back and bring back the books they’ve read in exchange for credit for new books. The group of old ladies that always came in on Friday afternoons were experts at the book exchange program and rarely paid for any of their Nora Roberts and Danielle Steel novels.

I hate to admit it, but when I was in high school, I didn’t really get them. In fact, I made fun of them. I didn’t think they were real readers. And by real, I meant serious. But now, writing my first novel and reading lots of romance novels myself, I realize that everyone is a real reader. It doesn’t really matter what you read as long as you read. And it’s more often the case, that people who read genre fiction that offers them some sort of escape, actually read a lot more than those who read those so-called serious novels.

And that’s all you can really ask for as a writer, isn’t it? Someone who is willing to read your books voraciously and with great appetite. I wander back to the romance section and look over the piles of books that Danielle Steel has written and published. Her catalog is impressive, enough to make you think that there’s no way you could ever write a third of these books in a lifetime. But then again, it’s also inspirational. If she can do it, why can’t I?

“Wow, well, I’ll be damned,” someone says behind me. The voice sounds familiar, but it takes a moment to realize who it belongs to.

“I never thought I’d catch you, of all people, with a Danielle Steel novel in her hands,” Tom says.