New found appreciation

I have always loved to read, devouring books of all genres, earnestly collecting them, thrilled when I could add a new volume by a favorite author, refusing to loan them out (the empty space on the shelf disturbs me and people forget to return them), and running out of shelf space (much to my husband's dismay).  Dreaming of seeing my own name among them one day, I never gave much thought to the agonizing amount of work that went into creating these worlds in which I loved to get lost, and having written and published a memoir, still did not offer me an accurate idea of how difficult a task lay before anyone who chose to write fiction. The story I had captured between the pages of My Father's Gardens had already taken place - I knew the characters personally and had experienced the plot, certain of every gesture and the order in which it had taken place. But now people are beginning to ask whether a second book is in store, at which point I have to admit that the idea of one has been plaguing me for well over a year, and because I would like to try my hand at fiction, this notion has remained just that - an idea that has made itself a cozy little nest in my brain, and now that it has settled in, gives little indication of ever moving out. As if I wasn't already awed by the talents of the fiction writers whose creations line my shelves, I now have an entirely new found appreciation for the time and effort devoted to their craft.