I've started collaborating with my illustrator for the fourth book in the Annie the Porcupine series. This is the book that wasn't meant to be written. I never planned on writing more than three books about Annie; in fact, I already had other projects on my to-do list—everything from a romance novel to a YA book. But sometimes, stories just come to you when you least expect them.
I lost my mom in 2010. Although I miss her deeply, the ache in my heart has slowly become bearable. Over the years, I've learned to live with the loss, though there are still days when the grief feels as fresh as ever. Sometimes, I feel the weight of her absence when my kids do something that would make her proud, or when I'm not feeling well and long to hear her voice offering nursing advice. As an RN, she was always my first call when one of the kids or I was sick. These moments bring both a smile to my face and a pang of longing in my heart.
One day, while looking for something, I found an old card from my mom. That card brought everything back—the grief, the loss, the ache. I ended up lying on my bed, clutching a box of tissues, sobbing and wishing so desperately that she could be with me. But something remarkable happened that day. As I lay there, a story came to life. I grabbed my ever-handy notebook and began to write. The words flowed effortlessly, almost as if my mom were there, comforting me and telling me it was okay to cry. Writing that story felt therapeutic, and by the time I finished, I felt a little lighter. I set it aside, convinced it was just for me and no one else.
Chris, my husband, knew about my emotional day and writing session. At some point, he asked to read the story—a first for him since he usually waits for the finished product. At first, I was hesitant. This story felt so personal to me, so raw. But I eventually handed it to him, explaining that it was just for me. When he finished reading, he handed it back with tears in his eyes and said, "Donna, this story needs to be told." I laughed and said, "No," but Chris persisted, urging me to at least let the kids read it.
Reluctantly, I typed up the handwritten draft, crying again as I relived the emotions I had poured into it. I told my kids that this story wasn't for anyone else; it was too personal. But then Annie video-called me with tears streaming down her face and said, "Mom, you have to publish this." We cried together as I explained why the story meant so much to me, but I still wasn't convinced anyone else would feel the same.
Cody, my analytical and ever-supportive son, gave me the push I needed. He said that while the book might feel deeply personal to me, it didn't read that way. He saw it as an extension of Annie the Porcupine's journey and believed it could connect with readers on a profound level. Encouraged by my family's support, I shared the draft with my beta readers, and their feedback echoed what my family had said: this story needed to be told.
And so, here I am, collaborating on Book 4. As Alexandra sends me her initial sketches, I find myself crying again—not from sadness, but from gratitude. She has always captured Annie's emotions so beautifully, and this book is no exception. I'm beginning to realize that this story wasn't just for me. It's for everyone who has had similar experiences and need to know they're not alone. Maybe it's the story that Annie's journey has been leading to all along. To Annie the Porcupine and Book 4—may it bring comfort, connection, and healing to those who read it.
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