The summer of 2007, I lost my beloved dog. She was 11 but in perfect health. Then she suddenly fell ill. I went to the vet and they gave her medicine. However, late evening the same day she became much worse. When we called the vet station, they said they were already closing and the nearest hospital that might be able to help was many hours away.
I decided to hope for the best, or at least let her die at home instead of in a bumpy car ride.
She became completely paralysed somewhere around midnight. I sat with her all night, perhaps slept for an hour or so, lying on a mattress always touching her. But most of that very, very long night, I sat with my back against the wall, one hand constantly caressing that beautiful head. In the other, I held a book.
I don't remember much about that book. I think it was a short story anthology. I don't remember the author/s/. I don't remember the title. I don't think I'd even recognise it if I picked it up one day in the future. It might have been glorious, it might have been mostly crap. It could have been intelligent, romantic, exciting, sad. The important thing is that it kept me company during the worst hours I've ever experienced.
So for all writers out there: sometimes it's not about being wittiest, most romantic, original, or even have a great writing technique.
Sometimes it's just about helping someone pass the time when they need it the most.