I started the journey to be a novelist with hope, not expectations. I hoped that I possessed the tenacity to write an entire book. I hoped to have enough talent to entertain people. I hoped to create lands and characters and situations that were relevant. I hoped people would buy my stories.

I wrote a novel, then another, then another. I let them out into the world with no idea of what to expect.

What I got was an amazing rush of reader response. People wrote me emails and letters. Dozens of book clubs invited me into homes. Readers called me. They called my parents. They wrote on my facebook page. People I’ve never met cut articles about me out of newspapers and mailed them to me with a note. I got flowers.

For me, hearing from readers is the highlight of my writing career. The money isn’t that great (not yet anyway), the joy of seeing your name in print wanes over time, even the creative aspect of it becomes more work and less romance. But I’m always thrilled when readers share how my work has affected them. I value the connections that mean my writing has not only entertained, but also helped, comforted, angered, frightened, enlightened or brought someone to tears.

Writer friends advised me that readers would share their own stories and it is true. People are very earnest in giving me personal narratives, a generous thing I never take lightly. I have had the sad reader tell me of their own brush with agony while others waited in line behind them at book signings. I’ve heard funny, embarrassing stories too. And then there are the in-between moments, like book clubs where conversations turn to personal confessions—infidelities, drug addictions, sordid pasts.

An enormously successful writer friend once told me to, “Write about the things that everyone experiences, but nobody is willing to talk about.” For me, there is no better creative advice.

So I write about the vast geography of human emotions that accompany life’s most difficult moments. My characters aren’t superheroes or amazing detectives or cold-blooded creatures of the night. I create ordinary, decent, vulnerable people, put them in extraordinary situations and see if they can figure their way out.

A dapper older gentleman from my hometown came to see me at a signing for my first novel, Calling Home. As I watched, he fished a creased slip of paper from a pocket and slowly unfolded it. He smoothed it down onto the table and slid it across to me.

“I read your book, young lady,” he said. “I’d like to buy a copy for my daughter and I’d like you to write this here on it, please. It’s from Shannon’s graduation speech. Your destiny is the sum of the choices you make.” There was no way this wonderful man could have realized what a reward he had given me. He recognized truth in my work and wanted to share it with someone. That moment defined success as a writer for me.

A thirteen-year-old girl wrote to tell me that she loved my second book, The Ocean Inside, but she was mad that my teenage character had let a boy control her. She said she would never do that.

I’ve had a couple of people write that they cried when a certain character died. They both felt it was quite unnecessary to kill him, although they were sure it made the story interesting in the middle.

A local minister emailed to say my language and descriptions are too explicit.

A letter arrived from an inmate in federal prison who said my work made him homesick.

A woman wrote that my holiday story, Decorations, was “a gift” to her after her mother’s death from Alzheimer’s.

Of course, I always enjoy the fan letter that shows someone was simply entertained. My favorite was from a young lady in Oregon who said, “I’ll read anything you write.” Truly, there is no higher complement.

Hearing from readers has given me a new respect for the responsibility of being an author. Each time I begin a story I feel that tingle of uncertainty. I’m still taking a chance, wondering if people will connect with what I have to say. If nothing else, I hope people will find me an honest writer, someone who makes them think.

Thank you to everyone who has helped me along the way, particularly my readers who cared enough to respond. I’m certainly more confident now that I have your thoughts and words for inspiration.  I’ll keep writing and I hope you will too.

The first time I was interviewed about Calling Home I felt a little awkward, but in a good way. I've had a long career as a freelance writer and PR person, so I was used to being on the other side of the microphone. I wanted to say, “Hey, wait a minute. I'm supposed to be the one asking the questions here.”

Another time I was left slightly off kilter at a literary event when a lovely older lady asked if she could take my photo and then shoved her camera at her friend and hugged me up as if she were my proud grandmother. A little more on the unusual side was the woman who approached me in the grocery, poked me in the arm and said, “You're that writer.” She had no idea of my name, but she was obviously thrilled to have recognized me before she strolled off to squeeze the melons.

I'm used to being the one in the background helping clients get their own fifteen minutes of fame. So why does it feel so odd for people to be interested in me? Of course, I want people to recognize my name and feel drawn to my writing enough to say, “Look. There's another book by Janna McMahan. I can't wait to read it.” After all, when you're a writer, your name is your brand.

People are generally intrigued when they find out somebody is a writer. At first some folks show skepticism, but when they find out that you're truly published their interest is sincere and the questions begin. People ask if I always knew I wanted to write (for as long as I can remember), what's my favorite book (the dictionary) and where do I get my ideas (a type-A personality and lots of caffeine). The most frequent question I'm asked now is how much of my work is based on my own experiences and on people and places I know. It's nice readers express honest interest in the creative process. Inquiring minds want to know. So here goes.