A woman once told me my stories will pull you apart and put you back together but never in quite the same way. I should have known I’d become a writer when at age thirteen I began changing the ending to all the books I read. It took several years and a number of jobs, including registered nurse, (very short lived), receptionist in a swanky hair salon, (great cuts, no money), accounts payable clerk, (ugh- not for a right brainer!), and practice manager in an OB/GYN office, (good job, great boss), for me to rediscover writing.
It all began at the hands of a 286 computer, a failing marriage, and three daughters under the age of five. Writing proved wonderful, (and inexpensive) therapy as I let my fingers and bruised heart begin a tender love story where the hero and heroine surpass incredible obstacles in search of true happiness and eternal love. But the story was only 100 pages complete when I packed it away and moved with my children to a rental bungalow where I took on the challenge of single motherhood and re-entering the work force. The 5 ¼” floppy disk containing the love story remained sandwiched between Lotus and PacMan until years later, when I discovered it while unpacking boxes for the home I shared with my new husband, three children, and two stepchildren. I powered up the old 286 computer, popped in the disk, and spent the rest of the afternoon re-reading the story and mapping out my future as a writer. Since then I’ve written and published several emotion-packed books, with a recurring second chance theme.
When I’m not writing or following the lives of five adult children, I’m digging in the dirt with my flowers and herbs, cooking, reading, walking our rescue lab mix, Cooper, or on the perfect day, riding off into the sunset with my very own “hero” husband on his Ultra Limited…aka Harley.
Why I Write
People always ask, why do I write? That’s simple.
As a child, I can still remember crowding around our black and white television with my brothers and sister, anxiously awaiting the annual Wizard of Oz movie. I was petrified of the flying monkeys and the wicked witch’s scary face, and that voice, but I was perplexed by the narrator at the beginning when he told viewers the first half of the movie would look different than the second. Ours never did—not until our black and white television died and our parents bought a colored one. (After much deliberation, I must add!) Then, I understood.
And that’s what writing has done for me; put the color in my life. It’s the gift I give myself, and it is the gift I wish to share with you… in full blown color.