I enjoy reading dedications in books. They give an insight into the authors, and you wonder how and why these particular dedications came about. Sometimes all you see is a name, wondering what made the relationship special enough to earn a dedication. Others aren’t mysterious at all, perhaps a mom or spouse (based on the hundreds of dedications I’ve seen, I’d give the edge to spouses, followed in rapid succession by children and moms).
But can you dedicate a book to a special day? Or an event? Or a memory?
Today I am reminded of how the subject of my first dedication was very easy to choose. As soon as I admitted to Paula I was writing “Dead Jed,” I knew she’d be on me to finish. Her efforts did not disappoint, as she demanded to read a new chapter each week. And if I did not have something to show her, I received stern looks and a quick “Turn off football and go write. Now” order. She was with me through thick and thin, and we naturally assumed we’d live out our lives together.
Paula would have been 53 today. Cancer stole her from me nearly four years ago. When I signed with an agent, she was the first person I told. But she left before we found a publishing deal, the book hitting shelves a year after that.
I miss Paula every day, but especially today.