I can’t remember what sparked my interest in writing stories. It began at a very early age, pretty much as soon as I learned how to write. My parents taught me to love books, so perhaps the love of writing stemmed from the love of reading great stories.
I wrote stories and poetry through elementary and into high school. As a young teen, I began drawing maps with my younger brother and then since he was writing a book about one, I decided to write a book too. Stories just poured out of me. In college, I took a notebook to class and spent my lectures filling them up with words that had nothing to do with what the teacher was saying. I’d glance up occasionally to make it look like I was paying attention, but my thoughts were in a different dimension.
I dabbled in other interests through the years: drawing and painting, photography, dance, acting, music, beading. But writing is the one that stuck through all the obligations and commitments of adulthood. I love being able to make people feel emotion with words.
As most artists do, I’ve had times of doubt about whether I should continue pursuing my craft. The majority of the world doesn’t even know I exist and of the people that do, only a fraction are interested in reading my stories. But I can’t stop.