For five years I have been immersed in various stages of writing “Saving Ellen: A Memoir of Hope and Recovery.” Yet the act of writing a book, and now having written one, is a constant revelation. I am in new territory.

During my decades-long career at four newspapers, I wrote nearly every day. I always wanted to write a book. But that seemed like an elusive goal, so different from the kind of word-smithing I was accustomed to.

So, when I started to write my memoir, I kept my feeling of intimidation to a minimum by keeping all the chapters short. I pretended I was writing columns. The ruse worked.

Yet, when the book was on the very cusp of publication – even when I opened the box from Skyhorse Publishing containing ten books in the beginning of March – I didn’t experience relief, or joy, or pride, but a kind of numbness.

Did I really do this? I thought. Did I really lay bare the episodes of my chaotic childhood, with its highs and lows? Did I really share these instances of my father’s drinking, my sister Ellen’s courage, my sister Claudia’s protectiveness, my mother’s wisecracks?

And would anyone, anywhere want to read it?

The process seemed abstract even when another box of books arrived, enough so I began to send copies to family members and those who had helped me along the way.

But when I walked into Bank Square Books in Mystic, Conn., April 16 for my author launch and first public book reading, the abstractions vanished. There, next to the cash register, framed by smiling store employees, was a stack of my books, with its lovely blue cover and striking yellow typeface showing the title, “Saving Ellen,” in bold, over and over again.

Then it hit me: More than writing about my life, I wanted people to know about my beloved sister and everything she went through. I wanted people to see how funny and smart my mother was, and how, in the end, I loved my father despite all of his mistakes.

People began arriving well before the event started. Thirty or so chairs were set up and soon every seat was filled. My support group and tribe, Mystic Writers, were there. My brother Tim had driven nearly two hours from Massachusetts. Neighbors who live on my rural road in Franklin arrived. My husband took a seat in the first row.

It seemed natural to talk about the book, which I did for about 10 minutes. I read a portion from the middle of the book that I had chosen ahead of time. Susan Keitzman, fellow Mystic writer, asked me to read from the beginning of the book, which is certainly dramatic; it opens up as I am stealing money from my father, who is passed out after a night of carousing.

Questions and remarks from the audience were eye-openers. My brother Tim got a moment to shine when people asked how he and other siblings reacted to the book. Tim stood up and said he found it depressing reading, in part because he wasn’t present for many of the more spectacular scenes involving my father. He was in college when I was in elementary school, and he didn’t realize things had gotten so bad. I put a hand on his shoulder, and told the audience that the two best men I know are my husband and my brother, but that I truly got to know Tim long after the events of the book took place. His presence in my life for the last 30 years has more than made up for his absence early on.

Then came the book signing. People were so moving in their congratulations and personal messages. Two people said, quietly, “I stole from my father, too.” One woman said that, like me, she was sexually assaulted as a child. She slipped me a note about it. I emailed her later.

I realized then that the most important aspect about writing this or any book is its impact. If people can see themselves in my family, or feel a kinship with shared experiences no matter how painful, then the book was worth spending years to write. As I spoke with readers and listened as a few shared intensely personal stories, I felt so grateful.

How beautiful and fragile our lives are. How lucky I am to be a witness to those interacting with my story. Somewhere, Ellen is smiling.

Photo taken April 29 at Maura’s second book launch at the  James L. Crane library in her hometown of Buffalo, NY.