Why I Write

And why stories matter

I write for two reasons. The first is simple and selfish. I love it.

Writing is one of the few activities that helps me lose track of time. Hours disappear. Dishes remain undone. Laundry sits neglected. Entire afternoons vanish while I chase characters through imaginary towns, solve murders that never happened, and fall in love with people who exist only on the page.

In some ways, writing is an escape even more powerful than reading. When I read, I enter someone else’s world. When I write, I build one from scratch. Both have carried me through difficult seasons, stressful days, and moments when reality felt heavier than I wanted to bear.

The second reason I write is, every now and then, I receive a message from a reader-friend like this one:

Last Friday night here in our neighborhood, four connected townhouses caught fire. No one was hurt, thank God. One of the townhomes is where a friend of mine lived. My husband & I are helping her however we can as she navigates all of this. Her old car broke down the very next night. I didn’t need my car for a while, so it was easy to just loan it to her. She’s in the process of getting a rental car and the insurance is paying for a hotel. All of us here are required to have home/renter insurance and she does have it, thankfully. She’s a sweet Catholic Christian and she has been amazing us with her calm in the midst of all of this. Interestingly, she displays a pretty angel statue in her front garden, a cross, and she is devoted to God and helping others. Her townhouse was the least damaged. There was no black inside of it. The one next to her is completely black inside.

First of all, please lift a prayer for her. Also, my next door neighbor, who is in the hospital.

Secondly, I’m planning to get your Dillweeds book…it looks like on FB you are showing it as available. That’s great! Yay…happy for you! I’m looking forward to some enjoyable reading. Thanks!

It has taken me awhile to get the images of the huge flames and black smoke out of my head. I told my husband, I need one of Kristy’s books.

Sometimes we read because we’re curious. Sometimes because we’re bored. Sometimes because we want to learn something new. But sometimes we read because the world feels frightening.

My reader had spent days watching a friend lose her home to a fire. She had seen the flames, smelled the smoke, worried about neighbors, prayed for friends, and carried images she couldn’t shake. And in the middle of all that, she wanted a cozy mystery. Not because she was ignoring reality. Because she needed a break from it.

Stories don’t erase our problems. They don’t rebuild burned homes, heal sick neighbors, or make grief disappear. But for a few hours, they give our minds a safe place to land.

A cozy mystery promises that, no matter how tangled things become, there will be answers. Justice will prevail. Good people will help one another. Life may be messy, but it isn’t meaningless.

That’s why I write them.

Of course, I enjoy the puzzles, the small towns, the quirky characters, and the occasional judgmental cat. But what I love most is creating a place readers can visit when life feels overwhelming—a place where friendship matters, kindness still exists, and hope gets the final word.

If one of my books helps someone sleep a little better after a difficult week, smile during a hard season, or set aside a troubling memory for an evening, then every hour spent writing was worth it.

Stories may be fictional.

The comfort they provide is not.