I have been writing since I could hold a pencil. For decades now, that’s what I’ve wanted to do with my life. Mostly, I think, it’s because I’ve always loved to read. The library was my favorite place in the whole world when I was a kid, it was home to all of my favorite people. Sure, they may not have been real, in a technical sense, but what’s so great about being real? It didn’t do the Velveteen Rabbit a whole lot of good, now did it?
All through school I told myself, and anyone else who would listen, that I was going to be a writer when I grew up. I’ve taken a few years off–okay, thirty-something years off–to pursue other interests such as getting married, raising children, a job that would put food on the table, stuff like that.
Better late than never, right? I finished a book, I’m polishing it, getting it ready to be published. I’m going to do this thing. I’m excited about it, and feeling like I am finally doing something that I really want to do.
But, uh, don’t tell anybody–I’m scared to death.