The Cure for Writer's Block:

Watching Someone Else's Fight.

Two and a half years ago, when I was lying in a hospital bed undergoing chemo for Leukemia, the idea of writing felt impossible. My mind was a swamp of nausea, fatigue, and relentless anxiety. It was a space so loud with the clamor of sickness that creativity—the quiet, patient voice of storytelling—simply couldn't get a word in.

Cancer became the ultimate, inescapable form of writer’s block. I had the time, yes, but I didn't have the mental or physical capacity. All my energy was dedicated to survival. For months after treatment ended and I entered remission, the block remained, a protective wall around the memory of the trauma. I was home, I was well, but the stories were still sleeping.

From Block to Breakthrough

That wall only came down when I saw another, a little girl with Burkitt’s Leukemia, undergoing the same treatments I had endured.

She is at Boston Children's Hospital right now, facing the same relentless cycle of IV bags, the same isolation, and the same seasick feeling that I know so intimately. Imagining her tiny frame endure the ordeal allowed

a strange and immediate shift in perspective for me. My struggle instantly became a memory—a piece of history—while hers was a vivid, present fight.

In that moment, my writer's block didn't just lift; it evaporated. It was replaced by a singular, fierce desire to reach through the glass of her isolation and let her know she is not alone.

A Story Written Just for Her

When I was in the hospital, books were my escape route. They were the magic shafts of light that lifted me out of the room. Stories were better than any anti-nausea medication because they replaced the constant internal monologue of "sick" with a vivid, new reality.

Now, I have the profound opportunity to return that gift.

My new project is a story written specifically for her—a fantasy that acknowledges the hospital room while simultaneously giving her, the hero, a mission of gentle power and purpose. It’s a story about a brave girl who finds a way to share comfort with other children, guided by a faithful, magical companion.

This is more than just writing; it's an act of solidarity. My Leukemia gave me a terrifying two-year hiatus, but watching this brave girl has finally given me the most meaningful catalyst an author could ask for: the cure for my own silence is the need of another person's heart.

I don't know if this story will ever be published widely, but I know exactly who the audience is, and that is more motivation than any deadline. To the brave girl at Boston Children's: I see you, I know your fight, and I'm writing this for you.

Do you have a personal story of how reading helped you through a tough time? Share it in the comments below!