I was born in the ‘60s. I wore paisley, tie dye, bell bottoms, and peasant blouses the first time around. I’m sorry to say everything is back, including brown polyester and mustard colored shirts.
I started writing stories when I was eight. Scribbled pencil notes scraped by an eraser. I wrote about my grandma and made my mother cry. I mistook the tears as a negative critique and put my lined note paper away.
At twelve, I ventured out again. I entered a contest in a magazine with an essay about America’s greatness. Much to my shock and horror, I didn’t win. So, again, I stopped.
In college, three teachers asked me if I considered writing as a career. I equated it with journalism and didn’t want to be a reporter. I seriously considered law school, but opted for accounting instead. I got an MBA too. My practical side overruled my creative side.
After marriage and two beautiful daughters, the itch to write returned. I joined the whirlwind of manuscript submissions and rejection letters. At last, All Hours Trading clicked and made me a published author.
My favorite things are music and reading. I listen to Springsteen to Pavarotti to Gershwin to Motown and all the show tunes in between. With books always on reserve, my library’s circulation staff knows me by name. I try to limit myself to five books out at a time.
May the best of this year be the worst of the next.