Yoda said “Do or do not…there is no try.”  I’d have to disagree with that.  I’m trying to become a published author. I haven’t yet done that, but I’m confident I’ll get there.

I’m trying to get healthier in my middle years. At this point, I’m not sure which is the more Herculean task.

About three years ago, writing, my passion, practically my reason for living, became an overwhelming drudge as did my job and even pleasurable things like knitting or going out to dinner with my husband. All over, bone-deep pain became my constant companion.

During this time I tried to write six novels, none of them worth a hoot. Most of them are still first drafts. A few are little more than proposals.

Eventually, I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia, a little understood disease of the immune system, lumped in with rheumatoid arthritis and lupus. Life went on, more or less the same since it’s incurable and all you can do is control the pain with things like Motrin. Around this time, I noticed that my pinky finger joints were becoming swollen, painful misshapen. I kept on writing, but had little enthusiasm for it.  Reading was easier and less painful.

Then, few months ago, I found out my gynecologist also specializes in the treatment of fibro.  He ordered some tests, gave me the name of a book to read and I waited.

That book, titled, From Fatigued to Fantastic, by Jacob Teitlebaum, MD was my miracle. Until then, I thought I’d have to live with this disease and pray for a cure. Dr. T and my own doctor gave me something I’d almost abandoned—hope.

It turned out that I’d been wandering around for months, possibly a year or more with Epstein-Barr virus as well as another, more obscure virus called HHV-6. Since I meet hundreds of people, the majority of them young adults, each week, I probably contracted it on the job.

I became a member of the “Handful Club”. You’ve met them, people who take so many medicines and vitamins they gulp them by the handful. But I am a grateful and happy member.

Gradually, I am regaining energy. I can get up in the mornings and write until it’s time to go to work, then work a full day and come home and stay awake until bedtime. I can remember things for more than a few seconds at a time and writing has become a joy once more.

I still have bad days, mostly when I get a stupid attack and don’t take care of myself, but for the most part, life is pretty damned good.

I realize that my story is nothing remarkable. Many, many people go through life with difficulties that are gargantuan in comparison to mine. I salute them. I admire them. They are my heroes and they make me appreciate my life and my health despite my little aches and pains.

Yesterday, my husband told me a little story about a student at a special school for kids with physical impairments. One of the pupils recently won a state-wide physics competition. This child is completely paralyzed with the exception of one finger.

That, to me, is doing.

My sister is quite a bit older than me. When I was a pre-schooler, she was in middle-school, then high school. So quite often, I wandered around alone, playing with the animals and my imaginary friends. On weekends, Jacki occasionally would take pity on me and let me tag along with her exploring the area.

On a  fine spring day, she took me with her to a vernal pond up at the top of the hill behind our house. I was asounded that this fairyland oasis existed so close to where we mortals lived. And when Jacki told me that the pond would dry up and disappear as summer approached, I became even more intrigued by it.

One day, bored and alone I was just hanging out on the porch, petting the dog and it hit me: I could go back to the pond! Alone! I knew the way there and back and it wasn’t like anyone would miss me. So, off I went.

I found the little pond and I played with the tiny frogs that had just made their way to dry land after weeks of being tadpoles. I watched dragonflies zoom past like the Huey helicopters that would occasionally fly over from Miramar Naval Airstation. I lay on my back in the grass and watched the clouds. It was glorious. Then, I started getting hungry and a little thirsty. Jacki had warned me about drinking pond water and I had no desire to ingest an amoeba, so I set off for home.

Some minutes later, I wandered into our yard, only to be greeted by a dozen sheriff’s deputies, neighbors on horseback and my parents and sister frantic.

It seems I was missed more than I’d anticipated and after searching closeby, a call went out on the neighborhood partyline for everyone to start searching for me.

I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. But I sure understood the paddling I got for worrying my family.

Since I’ve been hideously busy sucking blood and preparing for a combined total of 3 out of town trips, a new grandbaby and some minor renovations on the house, I decided to post an archived blog I’d written a couple years ago.  The content is still relevant today, and I’d love to hear what all of you think about love and our need for it.

Yesterday, Liz Bevarly posed an interesting question on her blog about whether or not romance novels are unrealistic because they always have a happy ending. The comments got quite philosophical and got me to thinking.

Do we, as human beings require love to live happy, fulfilled lives?

In my opinion, yes, we, as human beings absolutely require some sort of bond, some sort of connection with another living thing to be happy.

Now, I’m not talking about just romantic or sexual love, but any kind of love, whether it’s filial, the love of friends, or even the love one has for a pet.

In my life I’ve known quite a few people who have, for one reason or another, remained single throughout their lives and been happy and fulfilled. But they have friends, family and often pets to fill the empty place in their hearts that a mate would normally fill.

I’ve also known single people who are miserable examples of the human species. Not surprisingly, they’ve either shunned the love offered them in the past or they’ve gone out of their way to avoid any close relationships with other human beings. Now, they’re like an old, barnacle-encrusted shipwreck. You see the shell on the outside, but inside, they’re nothing but an empty vessel.

Another question that popped up into my brain was; Can the memory of a great love in one’s past sustain a person for the rest of their life?

Occasionally my friends and I will talk about what we would do if we found ourselves suddenly single, either thru divorce or the death of our spouses. My automatic response is to laugh and say that I’d remain single for the rest of my life–it’s too much trouble to *house break* another man. But in my heart of hearts, I wonder if that would really be the case. Would I stay single for the rest of my life, preferring the memories of my life with Hubby? Or would I eventually feel the need to seek out another special someone to keep the other side of the bed warm on a cold night and someone whose razor I can steal because it works so much better than mine?

So, what do you think? Do we need love to be happy, fulfilled people? Or can we get along just fine without it?

This semester in college, she’s taking a public speaking class and must write her own speeches. I agonize for her, knowing how she despises the whole ordeal. It’s not just the writing, it’s getting up in front of a room full of people to give a convincing speech on the chosen topic.

The writing, dear old mom can help her with, the speaking part, I cannot.

Ever since I can remember, getting up in front of a staring, expectant, crowd of people has turned my brain as well as my legs into aspic. I have vivid memories of my first piano recital at age nine, where I couldn’t get past the opening strains of the Mozart piece I’d been practicing for months. I left the stage in shame.

In high school, I agreed to perform a duet with one of my fellow choir members. This time, he is the one who forgot the melody and the words to a popular John Denver ballad. But I was the one mortified. He just laughed the whole thing off while I burst into tears.

I’d rather go to the dentist for a weekly root canal than speak in public. So why, why did I volunteer to be an author liaison??? This position entails getting up in front of our writing group and giving a brief description of a published author’s latest book. I still can’t figure out why I volunteered to do this, except for the fact that my particular author is not just a wonderful writer who paints vivid word pictures, but she’s an extraordinarily wonderful person.

This past summer, when her latest book launched, I had to do my duty. I sat down and wrote my little speech on note cards, all highlighted and underlined. I thought I’d be fine. After all, this wasn’t a group of strangers. These people were my friends, my fellow writers.

But as I approached the lectern, all I could hear was my own heart thundering in my ears. The room seemed to shrink and the faces in the crowd seemed to grow to gigantic proportions as they pressed in upon me.

After a quick prayer that I get through my speech without fainting, vomiting or some other embarrassing physical phenomenon, I cleared my throat and read the first line aloud. My voice sounded unnaturally loud in my ears, but other than that, I don’t remember much of the speech except that my voice wobbled as much as an operatic tenor trying to hit a high C note. My table mates assured me I did fine and didn’t appear the least bit nervous.

My paranoia tells me they were merely being kind. But, because I’m told everything gets easier with repetition, I will persevere. Hopefully, I have a few more months before I have to give another performance.

Oh, and that pithy bit of urban wisdom about picturing your audience naked? Uh, no. Not something I want to think about.

So, what about you? What do you dread? If you’re a writer, does showing your work to others scare the bejeebers out of you? If you’re a reader, are there certain things you avoid, such as making phone calls to strangers, because they frighten you? Tell us about it.

This is nothing new. Back when hubby and I were dating, we talked and dreamed about living on a sailboat. Then came the reality that raising children is difficult enough without the hazard of them drowning every time they step out the front door.

We put away our dreams and settled into a perfectly ordinary life of work, diapers, mowing the grass and dinner on the table at 6:00 every night. I worked, my husband worked. I still dreamed of being published, but it was just a pipedream. For the time being, writing was only a hobby, something I did in notebooks that were stashed under the mattress or in my work bag.

It wasn’t many years into our marriage that a movie came out about a reclusive and timid romance author who travels to the jungles of South America to rescue her sister from the clutches of some dimwitted bad guys trying to get their hands on a treasure map.

Once more, my dreams surged to the surface, but I kept them to myself, not daring to voice them to anyone for fear they’d tell me to get real and dismiss me with a roll of the eyes. Once Romancing The Stone and its sequel, Jewel of The Nile, came out on video, I hurriedly bought copies and watched them every chance I got—in between binge writing sessions done while the kids were at school.

Fast forward twenty-plus years. It’s now not only a new year, but the start of the second decade in a new millennium. I am approaching my fiftieth year on this planet and have suddenly gone hurtling into the throes of my own personal midlife crisis. A vague sense of dissatisfaction and ennui has engulfed me. I long for something that is just beyond my mind’s eye.

To quote Shirley Valentine: “I’ve lived such a little life and even that will be over soon.” I suddenly realized that my viable years are getting to be fewer and fewer and If I’m going to do something, I’ve got to do it pretty damned quick.

Finding a book in the travel narrative section of Borders on New Year’s Day clarified that something. I showed it to hubby and as I shook the trade paperback beneath his nose, I said, “We can do this.”

After much thought and discussion—mostly on my part, we’ve come up with a plan. In five years—no more than seven—we are ditching the mortgage, pulling up stakes and running away from home. Not forever, mind you, but for a while, until we tire of the expatriate life, run out of money or we become so infirm we need the assistance of our nurse daughter to see to it that we take our meds and eat on a regular basis.

Friends and family will come to visit and there will be plenty of visits home to see the kids and grandkids. We will be living a dream, something that many are too timid, too purse-poor or too lazy to pursue.

Given the sheer numbers of Americans living abroad, I know I’m not the only one who has this dream. Have you ever lived abroad, or dreamed of doing so? If you have, was it a good experience or a bad one? If you could live your life over, what would you change if anything?

Well, I’ll tell you, mine is nothing like oh, say, Christina Dodd’s. I have no moveable bookshelves, my windows don’t overlook sweaty muscled men laboring in my yard (unless I happen to catch hubby mowing the hillside) and I have nothing that in anyway resembles a customized desk.

As you can see from this first picture here, my writing space has blue walls. I chose this particular color when I was writing women’s fiction and I wanted to imagine that when I looked up from the computer, I was staring at endless blue water. I still love the color, even though I’ve switched to historical romance set in the late Victorian Era.

My writing space is small, it only occupies about one-third of a room that is about 12’X 11’. But for me, it’s home. I have all the essentials that every writer needs—a computer, a light source (don’t you love the frog?), a window with a view (sort of, if you count the neglected hillside in our back yard), plenty of desk toys to help me think and an emergency stash of alcohol.

Since I believe that writing should never be done in a situation where one is physically uncomfortable, I have chosen to fore go the traditional desk and secretarial chair and follow the example of my mentor, Haywood Smith, and write in a recliner. This particular chair belonged to my father. He sat here to watch the news, MASH, and the occasional program on PBS. In this chair he rocked his fussy grandbabies to sleep, and took more than a few naps himself. This chair has history, it’s comfortable and comforting.

On the antique side table I keep a kitchen timer, a clock, a cup full of pens and pencils (the cup was bought in England and says “Lady of Manor”), a replica of an antique Scottish butter mold, a tiny antique picture of a Victorian antecedent cutting up with a couple of her friends, reading glasses, paper for jotting notes and a foam chicken, compliments of my dear friends at the now defunct, Squawk Radio.

In the open drawer you’ll spot a giant, fold-out map of Great Britain, a couple containers of yogurt because I forget to eat when I go on a writing binge, and a tube of pain relieving hand cream.

And down in the corner, leaning against the window is my portable office—a capacious backpack that holds just about everything I need to write away from home.

There’s even the requisite cat. This particular one is named Junebug. Other residents include her mom, Kit-kat and her sisters, Felina and Gin Blossom (Ginny to her friends). Occasional visitors also include Roxy (aka Rockhead the yarn stealing dog) and Pepper Ann, the world’s most cowardly rat terrier.

In this second picture, you’ll see a bookshelf. It’s not nearly big enough, but for now, it suffices. On the top is a replica of an antique beer bottle, a couple of shells I’ve accumulated over the years and a delicate candle holder my sister gave me. There’s also an interesting little pottery jar I bought in Honduras.

On the second shelf, I keep a few historical romances—whatever interests me at the moment. If you look very carefully, the first book on the left is a 1st Edition copy of Ashes In The Wind by the venerable Kathleen Woodiwiss. This was a gift from my daughter, Alana.

On the third and forth shelves are just a few of my reference books. Everything from People of the British Isles (1870 to Present) to James Michener’s Writers Handbook. I even have a tattered copy of John Lust’s (don’t you just LOVE that name??) The Herb Book.

So, there you have it, a virual tour of where I spend not nearly enough time, where I angst over every word I write and where I question the sanity at pursuing this longshot dream of becoming a Published Writer.

So, what about you? Do you have a Sacred Space? What, if I may be so bold to ask, do you do there? Do you meditate? Do you write? Read? Knit? Cook?

Oh, and there’s a ten point bonus for anyone who can tell me the significance of the part about Kathleen Woodiwiss and the person who gave me the book.

We humans never need much of an excuse to indulge in that age-old pastime of contemplating our navels. Birthdays, anniversaries, you name it and we tend to automatically look back at where we’ve been and how far we’ve come.

For instance: a year ago, I was writing contemporary women’s fiction and bashing my head against the wall. Either my plots were too blah or the subject matter I wanted to write about was so controversial it bordered on taboo.

It was just after last year’s Moonlight & Magnolias Conference and a firm “no thanks” from the editor I’d pitched to, that my critique partner suggested I do something different and try writing, of all things, a historical romance.

I laughed so hard I thought I’d burst a blood vessel in my brain. But after thinking it over, I figured I had nothing to lose and if my CP was right, I’d have everything to gain. Besides I can easily convince myself that time spent surfing the net is absolutely necessary to my creative process.

So, I came up with a hero, a heroine, a villain and a plot. Everything was going great—for about three chapters. Suddenly plot holes sprouted like pimples before prom night. My characters weren’t motivated to do anything more than hang around annoying me. Just like that silly arcade game, “Whack-A-Mole”, every time I thought I’d conquered one problem, another one would pop up, leaving me gnashing my teeth, howling in frustration.

Something had to be done, and done quickly. I bought every writers “how to” book on the market, read them all until my eyes crossed, set up my sacred space for writing complete with candles and the color green (to stimulate creativity) and even put meditation tracks on my MP3 player to listen to as I slept.

Ironically, the thing that helped the most was the simplest—for me, anyway. I called my CP and talked it through. It’s amazing how the most unsolvable problem becomes nothing at all when seen through the eyes of someone who’s removed from it.

Some months I couldn’t write a word for over a week at a time. Then, I’d sit down in a marathon session and write an entire chapter in one day.

By the end of summer, my story had gone through about three different incarnations since I first came up with the idea. My plot, which at one time was simple, straightforward and boring, is now as convoluted as a rainbow-hued ball of yarn after the cat has played with it.

There are times in life when you must take leaps of faith; times when you just gracefully accept whatever gifts are given. I wasn’t going to attend M&M this year, but miraculously, I did. I wasn’t going to pitch but I went to the pitch workshop anyway.

Then, unbeknownst to me, a friend made an editor/agent appointment on my behalf. The agent requested a full manuscript—something that has never happened to me before. And to think, I almost let it slip through my fingers.

What about you? How has your writing life changed over the course of 2009? Will you do anything differently in 2010?

Like most introverts, I have many fears, none of which are in any way even remotely related to the supernatural or paranormal. In truth, one of my greatest fears (other than invisible lurking spiders) is public speaking. Oh, I can carry on a reasonable conversation standing around in a large group of people, but put those people in a chair, me in front of them with a mic and I freeze. I completely forget the English language and the sea of smiling humans becomes a throng of drooling, snarling werewolves waiting to devour me.

Earlier this month, I had an opportunity to sit down with a published author with the intention of putting together a 3 line pitch so I could be ready any time someone asked me about my book.

Immediately, this author picked up on the fact that the whole idea of cold pitching to some hapless editor or agent sent me into full blown DT’s. She very gently talked me down from the ledge and somehow, she magically unraveled my stuttering, stammering synopsis and helped me create a 3 sentence pitch. It worked!

When someone gifted me with an unexpected pitch appointment with an agent, I sat down, smiled, and in a semi-controlled voice, gave my pitch. I didn’t run away, I didn’t hurl—I even remembered her name—and mine!

The pitch worked so well, the agent requested a full manuscript.

Now, let’s talk about REAL FEAR.

REAL FEAR is sitting down at your computer, booting up your manuscript file and discovering there is absolutely NOTHING in your brain worth writing about.

That’s where I’m at today. I’ve done all the right things. Lit the candle, surrounded myself with green, have a comfy chair, there’s a bottle of booze within easy reach and I still can’t think of one damned thing to write that is remotely of interest to myself, let alone someone else.

Desperate, I fall back on the old if you can’t write something brilliant, write crap. You can always delete the crap, but there’s not much you can do if the page is blank.

So, dear readers, there you have it, my ultimate fear; facing down the blank stare of the word processor.

Here’s a tidbit of my WIP for your reading pleasure:

He walked up behind her as she stood alone on the edge of the crowd. “You look lovely tonight, Miss Habersham. Quite an improvement over this morning.”

Charlotte jumped. “Mr. Stafford!” she gasped. “Did your mother never teach you it was impolite to sneak up upon a person?” She held her hand to her breast for a moment, her face scarlet from her décolleté to the tips of her dainty ears.

James smirked. “I must admit my education did not include how to behave in the presence of feminine brewmasters.”

“How–?” Charlotte’s eyes widened for the briefest of moments, then they narrowed to angry slits. “What on earth are you talking about, Sir?”

“Come now, Miss Habersham…or should I call you Charlie? Do you think me lame of mind as well as of limb? Surely you knew I’d conduct a discreet investigation if I’m to keep your secret. I wouldn’t want to engage in any illegal activities, would I?”

James knew it was cruel to toy with Miss Habersham in such a fashion, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. “It is quite astonishing what some will reveal when tempted with the promise of a coin or two.”

Charlotte’s mouth fell open. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, Mr. Stafford, but my name is not Charlie and I am no brewmaster. My father’s Christian name was Charles. He was the brewmaster, not I.”

“Tsk, tsk, my dear. Mendacity does not become you. That pulse at the base of your throat gives you away in an instant,”

What is your ultimate fear? Is it something tangible like spiders? Or is it something more indefinable? Have you overcome your fears or have you conquered them?

A few weeks ago, my daughter got married—at the ripe old age of twenty-nine.Not so long ago in history, she would probably have remained a spinster if she hadn’t found herself a husband before the age of say, twenty-three. Unless of course, she got desperate and married some old geez in his forties with a passel of children in need of a female influence in their lives.

If my daughter were a character in a novel, she’d be described as a mature heroine. A Cinderella who, for one reason or another, didn’t find her Prince Charming until she had a few (or more than a few) years of life experience behind her.

As I sat, watching the ceremony, I couldn’t help but think of all the women surrounding me witnessing Summer’s marriage. Each of them has their own story, and each, in her own way is a Mature Heroine, too.

I consider myself blessed to look quite a few years younger than my birth certificate states. I found and married my Prince Charming right out of high school, and was still in my teens (barely!) when Summer was born. Thanks to good DNA, I don’t look like the mother of a woman pushing thirty. I was a youthful mother of the bride, but plenty mature as far as age and experience go.

Contrastingly, the mother of the groom is, in the eyes of the world at large, a “senior citizen”. She’s had her AARP card for a while, her hair is silver and evidence of decades of smiles wreath her eyes. She chose a career over motherhood until her mid-thirties. The very definition of the modern mature heroine.

Behind me, sat my Aunt Sally. I want to be her when I grow up. Sally is eighty-five and one of the most energetic, loving, giving women I know. She’s got snow white hair, and more than a few wrinkles. But she walks as upright as a Cherokee brave, her mind is as sharp as a Ginsu knife and until just this past year, she drove herself all over the country in her little Honda visiting friends and family. She’s survived being an unwed pregnant teen in an era when nice girls didn’t, as well as two devastating divorces. She didn’t find the love of her life until she was forty. Her son was grown and she’d already been a full-time working mom for two decades. Henry was twenty-odd years older and they were blissfully happy until, tragically, he was murdered by the crazy old man next door.

On the other side of the aisle, sat the groom’s grandmother. She’s a mere two years older than Sally, but is a fragile flower of a woman. She married the love of her life barely out of her teens and raised four daughters to responsible adulthood during the height of the flower child movement. Her back is bowed by osteoporosis, she uses the assistance of a walker to get around, and about three years ago, moved into a senior citizen village where her meals are prepared for her, she can play bridge in the comfort of the community room and emergency care is available twenty-four hours a day. She lost her Prince Charming a few years back and he took her heart to heaven with him.

After writing this, I’ve realized that the term mature heroine is quite elastic. Mature can mean chronologically old, yet young at heart or quite the opposite.And just because a woman passes a certain birthday, that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s ceased being a vital woman with plenty of love and passion left in her.

As a writer and a reader, I’ve been drawn to and intrigued by the mature heroine. When I see a manuscript (and not just mine!) get a comment such as “nobody wants to read about a forty-year-old woman who falls in love for the first time”. Or “A woman having her first child over the age of forty is unrealistic”, I shake my head, confused. Are all these women around me living unrealistic lives? Or is the critiquer the one who is unrealistic?

Who are the mature heroines in your life? Would you consider yourself to be a mature heroine?

The first novel I ever wrote filled a 3” 3-ring binder. Every page hand written. Looking back, it was terrible. I blush to admit ever conceiving the thing, much less putting it down on paper where any old person could pick it up and read it (Ahem, Mom!)

My story took place in Scotland in the 1700’s. There was no plot, no GMC. Run on sentences ran amok and my heroine was TSTL. My hero, though, was great. Tall, broad-shouldered, could wield a Claymore like a carving knife and he loved my heroine to distraction. He spent a lot of time saying “Aye, Lass,” to anything she desired. Great guy if you can get him.

In my twenties, time was taken up mostly with raising two rambunctious heroines-in-the-making. The personal computer had been invented and could be bought for roughly the equivalent of the down payment on a Hyundai Accent. However, we were purse-poor. I got a word processor instead.

My second effort at a novel was a western. Oh, God, how I loved those cowboys! This time, my hero was the one too stupid to live. He got involved in robbing a government payroll train and was the goat for the Mexican Bandits. He got caught holding the bag while they scuttled back across the border.

Hey, at least it had something resembling a plot! I still didn’t know anything about the publishing industry, though. That is, until I got a job in a bookstore. My boss was the littlest Partridge girl from, the 1970’s television show.

She put me in charge of kids books, but every free moment (and available dollar) was spent on romance novels. One quiet weekday afternoon, a lovely woman came into the store, headed straight for the romance section and began scribbling in some books. I yelled for her to stop. She smiled and said, “Honey, I’m the author. I just stopped in to autograph these for you. The autographed ones sell quicker than the ones that aren’t.”

I really didn’t hear that last part until later. I was stuck on “I’m the author”. I’d never met a real, live, romance author before. I was star struck. I shyly confessed that I wrote romance novels, and she gave me her card. On the back she wrote an address and a date. She handed it to me and told me to be there at 9:00 am.

Two weeks later, I drove ninety miles (one way) to where this group of authors met. The person who greeted me at the door was none other than Jill Marie Landis. I’d been gobbling up her books and recommending them to anyone who came into the store. And she was shaking my hand!

I joined RWA that very day and made that 180 mile round trip trek every single month for a year. Jill and I became better acquainted and I learned so much from our guest speakers. Things like Character Arcs, Point of View (and head hopping).

I even got to meet every woman’s heartthrob, Fabio. (I was surprised that he was actually a smart guy. Not dumb as a stump as I’d suspected.) And those pecs weren’t bad, either.

Sadly, just as I’d come to love the Orange County Chapter of RWA, my husband’s job uprooted us to Atlanta, GA.

I sat in my driveway and cried. We didn’t have the money for me to keep up my RWA membership. I was adrift in a strange place with no friends, no money and no connections. Then, a couple years later, I decided to visit Georgia Romance Writers. I couldn’t help myself. I told my husband we HAD to make room in the budget for me to rejoin or I was going to leave him. My threat worked.

I’ve been with GRW for 11 years now. I’ve honed my craft and feel that I’m truly 1000% better at writing than I was when I plunked down my first year’s dues.

I’m still not published, still haven’t sold a thing. But I’ve entered contests, submitted my work to agents and editors and gotten some wonderful critiques on my work.

Someday, and I believe with all my heart it will be soon, I’ll get “The Call” and I’ll be able to say I’m a PUBLISHED author.

But even if it never happens (knock wood), I’d still write. Why? Because writing is in my blood, my brain cells and my heart. These characters living in my head demand to tell their stories and I will respectfully and cheerfully submit to their will.

Who knows, maybe when I’m long dead, some descendent will find one of my mouldering old manuscripts up in the attic and decide to do something with it.