I found packing my non-fiction books depressing. At first, I thought it was because it was like saying goodbye to old friends, but then I realized it was something else entirely. It was depressing because I registered how little time I’ve spent in their company in recent years. I miss them. I miss researching historical events and stumbling across minutia that make my heart hum. I miss writing historical fiction.
So as I placed them in their cartons and methodically dragged the tape across the top, snugging them closed, I made a promise to them and to me. If I can write YA and contemporary romance at the same time, why can’t I add a third? History will once again become my present.