Chapter 47 MY FUCK-IT BOOK…
Eve had cancer… and is living a rom-com. Because, Fuck-it, why not?
I’d given her a backstory that didn’t feel like hers. It felt wrong. Like Santa without his reindeers. Like a vanilla cupcake without frosting. Like a romance novel without a Happily-Ever-After.
To give them a real second chance, I had to dig deeper.
I had to trust myself.
And then I knew.
But part of me hesitated. I didn’t want to use cancer as a plot device. (And I don’t think I did.)
Still, let’s be real: when I got diagnosed, it felt like a shitty plot twist.
At first, I tried making the cancer storyline belong to someone else. Then came the moment of: Wait…why the hell can’t the heroine of my rom-com be the one who had cancer?
I’d written a steamy, angsty romance under a pen name where the heroine had cancer.
It didn’t define her, but it had changed her life.
It informed some of her decisions. Years of treatments had an impact: emotionally, mentally and physically.
Writing under a different name made it easier, somehow, to go deep.
None of those stories are an autobiography. None of those stories are my story.
But they definitely hold parts of me. Like all of my books.
So... why not a rom-com?
I had cancer. I still laughed—and laugh—a lot.
There were rom-com moments during treatment.
(And a few sad ones, quiet ones, sleepy ones.
And okay, a few horror movie ones, too).
And remission is different for everyone, I'm sure.
And for many, like for me, cancer still has an impact years later.
It's in the background. Not always there.
Sometimes buzzing louder, sometimes quiet.
But the fatigue, the neuropathy, some other fun side-effects… it's still there.
During treatments and now, I had nurses who made everything better. Two of them had cancer when they were younger. That’s why they became nurses. As I wrote in the dedication: they fought for me in ways that still make my throat tight with gratitude.
Eve is for them.
And for every nurse out there making the world better for patients.
And for every person who’s had cancer and thought they were supposed to act or feel a certain way.
Who felt like they had to be inspiring, and then felt guilty when they weren’t.
Who stood in a pond, feeling alone.
Whose identity became patient, but who still carved out space to be themselves.
Even if it meant crying in the shower.
Or laughing at moments that would make others wince.
Or rediscovering tiny parts of themselves with partners, parents, kids, friends…
books. Stories they got lost into and found some peace and joy.
Or processed feelings between the pages because it was safer.
Or with a therapist who taught them it was okay to ask for help, to be themselves, who helped them realize that you could cry and laugh and be.
The ones who were unlucky when partners bailed (it happens) or very lucky with partners who not only stayed but tried to make everything better, who even went to therapy with you to learn to communicate even better (I'm lucky :-)).
Who are still living. In any way they can. And who know progress isn’t linear.
It’s also for those who didn’t make it. And the ones still in the thick of treatment. Hoping. Crying. Laughing. I carry them with me. And I want to honor them. Somehow.
Not long ago, I read Heartless Hunter and Rebel Witch by Kristen Ciccarelli. And at the end of Rebel Witch, she mentioned Heartless Hunter was her fuck-it book.
This is what she said about it:
For what it's worth, Heartless Hunter was my "fuck it" project. When I first sat down to write this story, I'd just had a baby and was very much in survival mode. I did not care what anyone thought about this book screaming to get out of me because I didn't have room to care.
(…)
I hope you find the courage to be unapologetically yourself and start making your life—and maybe even the world—what you and the ones you love need it to be.
Kristen Ciccarelli
When Eve became a nurse who had cancer and it didn’t define her, but it informed who she is now? It felt right.
And yet, I’d thought of all the reasons not to give a rom-com main character a cancer history.
Why?
Because I was scared. Scared I wouldn’t do her justice. Scared I was putting too much of myself on the page. Scared readers would think, “Ugh! Cancer?”
And then I thought of the book I wanted to write. How right it felt. How it felt like Eve’s story.
And I thought: Why the fuck not?
And I decided to be courageous.
So… this one?
This one is my Fuck-It Book.
And it’s as much for me... as it is for you. If you ever stood in the shower crying, or if you ever sometimes felt helpless and started singing offkey or not, maybe this can your fuck-it book, too.