From the Author
Yet without having known Bill, I might have never written Drawing Breath. Heck, he's one of the reasons I finished my first book and kept going. He was one of my heroes, although I never told him. If I had, he probably would have laughed and changed the subject. He believed in doing art, not talking about art, and he didn't consider himself a hero. Despite having cystic fibrosis and being in pretty rough shape at times, he just went about his business, did his breathing therapy, took his medication, and poured his passion into the activities and people he loved, even though he was already way past his "expiration date."
We silly humans can put blinders on when looking at people with horrible chronic diseases. As if they're saints or something. Bill was flawed, like all of us. Human, like all of us. He could have a temper, especially when he sensed he was being humored or pitied. He blew deadlines. He spaced on details, which led to sometimes sad and sometimes comical results. For reasons I could never fathom even though he explained it to me (patiently) dozens of times, he was a big fan of professional boxing and especially Muhammad Ali. He could be frustrating, but he could also be sweet and thoughtful and kind, often when you least expected it. As far as I knew, he never had a real girlfriend, and that made me horribly sad, because he had so much to give and was so infinitely lovable. Maybe that's also one of the reasons I wrote this book. But muses work in funny ways. As the character of Daniel became less Bill and more Daniel, the love I wanted to give him became more complicated, more demanding, more human.
This book is dedicated to Bill, although he'd probably tell me to stop talking about him and get back to work. So I do. I put my head down and write another novel, and another, and another.