I wasn’t an only child, but having a much older sister, I grew up in the house alone. I guess that’s why, at an early age, I began to tell stories. First there were stories to my dolls, then my parents and finally my friends.
By the time I entered school, I knew that I had a talent for story telling and could take the most mundane subject and give it life. I can’t begin to tell you how many stories I wrote in my free time. Both my parents were a bit older and in and out of the hospital with various chronic ailments. My free time was spent watching re-runs in the hospital rooms, or writing. I preferred the latter. It was an escape into worlds which I created.
By the time I hit high school, writing was a thing of the past. Occasionally, I’d get the urge to write down something other than a diary entry about my latest flame, but it faded quickly with a plethora of long homework assignments.
As a young married woman, there was no time for writing. Yet, I’d see some half baked television episode and knew I was a far better writer than some who were writing for television. There was always a little nagging voice which urged me to sit down and write what I had buried somewhere deep in my imagination.
As the children came, I used my writing as an escape from the housewife’s life. It became a part of my day, a nightcap, if you will. The more I wrote, the more I wanted to write. At each day’s end, I would find myself drawn to the magic of the PC. How wonderful to create the stories which had been cluttering up my mind for so long.
Suffer Not the Children was not the first novel I have written, but the first which I chose to publish. It tells of dreams and promises broken, heartache and recoveries. It promises hope to those who are searching and ends bittersweet. It’s about paths not chosen but those we are forced to take. It’s about what we chose to do along the way. It’s about becoming willows and bending as the winds of life challenge us to break.
By the time I entered school, I knew that I had a talent for story telling and could take the most mundane subject and give it life. I can’t begin to tell you how many stories I wrote in my free time. Both my parents were a bit older and in and out of the hospital with various chronic ailments. My free time was spent watching re-runs in the hospital rooms, or writing. I preferred the latter. It was an escape into worlds which I created.
By the time I hit high school, writing was a thing of the past. Occasionally, I’d get the urge to write down something other than a diary entry about my latest flame, but it faded quickly with a plethora of long homework assignments.
As a young married woman, there was no time for writing. Yet, I’d see some half baked television episode and knew I was a far better writer than some who were writing for television. There was always a little nagging voice which urged me to sit down and write what I had buried somewhere deep in my imagination.
As the children came, I used my writing as an escape from the housewife’s life. It became a part of my day, a nightcap, if you will. The more I wrote, the more I wanted to write. At each day’s end, I would find myself drawn to the magic of the PC. How wonderful to create the stories which had been cluttering up my mind for so long.
Suffer Not the Children was not the first novel I have written, but the first which I chose to publish. It tells of dreams and promises broken, heartache and recoveries. It promises hope to those who are searching and ends bittersweet. It’s about paths not chosen but those we are forced to take. It’s about what we chose to do along the way. It’s about becoming willows and bending as the winds of life challenge us to break.
No comments:
Post a Comment