Writing has given my life meaning and substance. I’m very fortunate to have a loving husband, two children, a beautiful granddaughter, (and identical twin grandsons who just arrived in this world yesterday), good friends, a loyal dog, and my health, but writing is the one thing I do just for me.
I’ve always been a writer. When I was a child, I wrote in a diary and described the joys and pitfalls of growing up. That diary was destroyed a few years ago. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone reading my wild angst-driven thoughts, even if I were long dead and buried.
Due to a botched operation, I lost my voice for a year and could only speak in the quietest of whispers. I love to talk and being unable to be heard over even the smallest background noise was hard at first. I felt alone and isolated, as I couldn’t contribute to any conversation, and I couldn’t work.
One day, I decided to try and write a book as a way to release all my pent-up ideas on paper. My goal was five pages per day. That’s 1250 words. Not easy, as all writers know, but I stuck with it, day after day after day, until one day, I was finished, and I typed those two, wonderful words: The End. A feeling of euphoria filled me at my accomplishment. I’d written 86,000 words. Incredible!
The plot of that first effort wasn’t great. The characters were flat, and the story filled with a plethora of clichés. But I was proud of what I’d written. I’d done it. I. Had. Written. A. Book. This one accomplishment changed my life. I discovered I love using my imagination to create new worlds and peopling them with varied and interesting characters.
Now, several years of writing later, I have two romantic suspense books published by The Wild Rose Press, and another will be release on June 7th this year. I’ve met other authors on-line and in person, joined writing associations, attended workshops and conferences, and thoroughly enjoyed every second of this incredible journey. I couldn’t be more grateful for the opportunity to write.