Liz Jacobson has always been better at growing things than finishing them. Gardens, friendships, sourdough starters — she tends them patiently and checks on them more than necessary.

She grew up in Ohio, studied English literature mostly because she couldn’t imagine studying anything else, and spent her thirties doing the kinds of things that don’t look like a career path until you’re already through them: substitute teaching, running a small alterations business, raising three children, moving four times in eight years.

She started writing fiction the winter her youngest started kindergarten. The house was quiet for the first time in a decade and she didn’t know what to do with herself, so she wrote a love story set in a small town. Then she wrote another one.

Her books are slow and warm and take their time. She thinks that’s the only honest way to write about love.

She lives in Vermont now, which still surprises her a little. The garden is always slightly out of control.