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Like any author before me, I was born with writing in my blood. Any one who has this unique gift discovers it at a certain stage in their life. For me it was in the 4th grade when my teacher gave the class a homework assignment to write a story and share it with the class. I remember the class applauding once I’d read my story, and the teacher pulling me aside to whisper in my ear that I had a special talent when it came to writing stories. I realized he was right.
So life went on and I grew up, married and had children. Then at the age of twenty-three I told my mother over a cup of coffee one morning that I was going to write a novel, that I had an interesting plot idea. It started out with pen and paper. Then I saved enough to buy a Smith Corona typewriter. I went to town on my first book, Lady Gabriella.
Lady Gabriella sat in a box in my closet for the next twelve years. I had let the excuse of being a busy mom and wife keep me from doing what my heart cried out to do, or at least that’s what I had convinced myself of at the time. Looking back now, I know being busy had nothing to do with it. It was this little nagging voice inside every authors head that tells us getting published is an impossible venture. It only happens to the lucky ones. How was I so special that I could withstand the hardships that come along with getting my stories out there for all the world to read?
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