The main character in my debut novel, COUNTING TO D, is dyslexic. I am also dyslexic, and I based Sam’s character largely on my own experience growing up with a severe learning disability. Dyslexia isn’t a cold; it’s not something that goes away. Even though I’m now a published author, I’m still a very slow reader and a horrible speller. Fortunately, I know what is and isn’t required to build a writing career. Knowing how to read fast and properly spell two-letter words is totally not necessary. I still misspell of all the time. Seriously, can somebody tell me when the letter f started making a va sound? Being an author does require an active imagination, and thankfully, that is something I have. Now that I’m a published author, I’ve somehow made it onto the “successful dyslexics” list, and people keep asking me what advice I would give to young, not-yet-successful dyslexics. My answer is that you have two simple choices: you can either strive for average your entire life and fail miserably, or you can accept that you were born exceptional. Every artistic masterpiece, every scientific discovery, every business innovation— every single thing that makes life on Earth worth…

One week before THE MIDWIFE‘s book launch, I received an email from a woman who had been given up for adoption by a Mennonite with a last name that is found in my own family tree. The woman wanted to establish a connection with her biological mother, but her mother was unwilling to meet her. It even seemed that her mother’s family was trying to prevent the meeting taking place. At my book launch, I met this woman who had emailed, but the crowd prevented us from speaking until after the event. Pulling me aside, the woman softly told me more about her story. She told me her friend had tracked down a high school picture of her biological mother—to see if she had red hair like she had growing up—but the picture was in black and white. She told me that she’d found the medical records regarding her birth, and that each page instructed the doctor and nurses not to allow the Mennonite woman to see her own child. The biological mother still lived in the same town where she had given birth; she even had the same last name. Nothing had apparently changed in all those years—and yet…