Tag: cancer

Happy Release Day to My F***-It Book: Nice Guys Don’t Kiss Like That At Christmas.

Burst pipes. One bed. Feelings I did not sign up for. And a vet with very large… hands. Merry Christmas to me.

Why is it my F***-It Book?

Writers talk a lot about the “Book of My Heart”: the story that feels deeply personal, the one you carry close.

But there’s another book, too.
The Fuck-It Book.

The book where you stop worrying about what’s expected, or tidy, or “on-brand.”
The book where you choose joy anyway.
Or choose whatever you need to write because you’re ready to.

Sometimes the Fuck-It Book and the Book of My Heart are the same book.
Sometimes they overlap.
Sometimes they’re cousins who share snacks and chaos energy.
I don’t know the exact category here.

But I know this one is my Fuck-It Book.

The one where I say:
Yes, she had cancer.
Yes, she gets the holiday steamy rom-com.
Yes, this is still allowed to be fun and tender and ridiculous and warm.

Nice Guys Don’t Kiss Like That at Christmas is that book for me.

And today, I want to tell you why.

Want a copy? Email me at: elodie AT elodienow.com

(You can listen to the podcast episode on your favorite podcast app – or you can read the full afterword of my book Nice Guys Don’t Kiss Like That At Christmas below).

Eve had cancer… and is living a rom-com. Because, Fuck-it, why not?

While revising this story what seems like forever ago but was most likely end of 2024, I hit a moment that didn’t feel right. Why did Eve ghost Adam? After everything they’d shared, after the way he made her feel…why oh wouldn’t she show up in Pittsburgh?

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 while I mention Eve’s caregivers in the book, and the people who made a difference, I want to say this here too: if you’ve ever had someone close to you who had to deal with cancer, and you showed up for them, or you were their caregiver, or you are their caregiver right now—I see you.

I am so grateful for everyone who was there and is here for me. And I want to give a shout-out (this isn’t the official acknowledgments or the dedication, but it matters) to my parents. (My husband too, but I talk about him already.) My parents came to the U.S. every couple of months. They stayed for so long. This book—this fuck-it book—would not exist without them. Without their support throughout my life, for giving me the love of reading that became a love of writing, and for being there during the very hard moments of cancer.

I know being a caregiver is not easy. If you are one right now, I hope you have a circle around you too—that you have someone, or several someones, who are there for you. Because that matters so much.

So this book is also for you.

And maybe one day I’ll write a story that centers more directly on the rom-com experience of a caregiver. But for now, I just want you to know this: I see you. I am in awe of you. I also know that sometimes it feels like you’re just doing the thing that has to be done, and sometimes it feels overwhelming and impossibly heavy. And sometimes there are moments of ease. Of joy. And sometimes maybe you also cry in the shower.

So yes. This book is also for you.

This fuck-it book of mine is also for you.

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.