As a child, I was mesmerized by storytellers and my mother always made sure I had a supply of books close at hand while I was growing up. Sitting on her lap and listening to her read to me is one of my earliest memories. I remember drawing pictures and then making up stories to go with them, and as I got older, my stories became longer and more fanciful. At age ten, I began to write them down, and when I was twelve, I wrote my first “book,” all handwritten. I wrote during rainy days in gym class when we all had to stay in the locker room and sit on benches. I had a small cult following of friends who waited for me to finish each page which I would then pass down the row. When I got a typewriter for my thirteenth birthday, I typed up my “masterpiece” and put it in a 3-ring binder then hid it away. The story was actually quite silly. Having a typewriter, however, made it possible for me to write even more, which I did on almost a daily basis.
But, as happens to many young, aspiring writers, reality grabbed me and when I graduated from high school and headed to college then into the workforce, the dream of becoming an author washed away. It wasn’t until I turned 62 and experienced my 3rd job layoff that I decided to try and make my writing dream come true.
Writing has since become an addiction to me, and I’m finding that ideas for numerous scenarios and characters keep flooding my brain, with the characters screaming, “Write about me! Write about me!”
And, that’s what I intend to do.
