Yesterday, I had a medical procedure that was uncomfortable and took too long. I’ll spare you the details. It’s too much information. But, I learned that my doctor and I are more a like than we are different.
She’s close to my age, has a daughter, doesn’t get to the hair salon or shave her legs as often as she knows she should. She worries about the price of things, and the materialism of the holidays. She once had a miniature schnauzer she adored.
All of these things could be said about me, except I’m on my third schnauzer. I’ve adored all of them.
We’re both older moms, who married our true loves later than most. She lost her dad last year. Me too. She still mourns. So do I. She wants my recipe for fresh cranberry sauce.
We’re more alike than different despite that I’m white and she’s black, that I write romance novels and have an education degree in a frilly subject, and she’s a doctor with a specialty.
This morning I realized I found my reader. She’s a smart woman, who needs to laugh, who needs to see the heroine win the big happily-ever-after prize, who needs a few minutes of escape from responsibility, just like me.
Yesterday, while compromised and uncomfortable, I discovered who I was writing for. I like her.