When I was a teenager, I’d write with a wild abandon, immersing myself in short stories with morals and satisfying endings. I would write page after page of poems, compiling structured books of ramblings that no one would ever read.
As life turned into paying bills as raising children, the writing took a back seat, then got moved to the trunk, until eventually it was roadkill left bloody on the side of the street, whimpering and struggling to breather.
I had it in my mind that one day I would write a novel. I started a few. A zombie novel. A fantasy. I’d start and finish novels in my head while showering, determined to hold onto these threads until one day, retired and bored, done with raising children and struggling from paycheck to paycheck, I’d give up on life and write a book.
A book. A single, solitary book. As if this one thing would be the most important thing I’d ever done.
I got tired of waiting for retirement.
I wrote a book. A thriller. While Sleeping, it’s called.
But it is absolutely NOT the most important thing I’ve ever done. And I don’t want to stop. I’m a writer. Repeat after me. I. Am. A. Writer.
And a reader. And a mother. And a teacher. And a partner. Welcome to my site. I’m glad you’re here. What are you?