It was a stuffy afternoon in the summer of 2001. I was traveling by train- a journey that lasted 22 hours- to meet my husband in another city, where he’d gone on assignment.

Books have always been such lifesavers for me and this time was no exception. Tuning out all the excited chatter from a large family of travelers in my coach, I settled down with my copy of  Jeffrey Archer’s A Quiver Full of Arrows. It wasn’t long before the teenager in the family bunch broke away and proceeded to stare inquisitively at the bright cover of the book I was reading. Her stare was long enough to compel me to lower the book a few inches and smile, hoping that she would now leave me in peace. Continue reading “The Lies we writers tell” →