Believe it or not, back when I was just a wee little lass, I wrote stories. Mostly it was in a book that was already written. And always it was total gibberish as I didn’t know how to spell, or write well, for that matter yet (I think I spelled my name Otbhr…yeah, don’t ask me, my mom could never figure that one out).  

As I grew a little older, I liked to pretend I knew what happened “after” a story ended. I was never satisfied with “The End”. I wanted more so I finished up the stories myself—the best part is I can still do that, make it what I want it to be.

In late elementary school, a friend down the street and I made a weekly newspaper. I couldn’t even begin to tell you what the content of the newspaper was other than a comic strip we created—which was a little dude on the wall who had catchy phrases (for the time, it was the 80s).

The newsletter lasted six months maybe, and we lost interest and decided to put on plays for her parents and mine (often to Pink Floyd for some strange reason).

Naturally like any young girl, I filled a diary with hopes, dreams, and lots and lots of the boys I wanted to date, the one who said yes or the ones who irritated me to the core and ended up as a butt-licking dog in a book years later. I still have that diary and it cracks me up to read all the angst and woe-is-me moments interlaced with the “some days” of a 12 to 14 year-old girl.

In high school, I graduated to actually writing out my work. My mother bought me a Brother Word Processor. And up until about 2 years ago I still had it. My kids even used it until one of them shoved a Yu-gi-oh card into the disk slot.

I wrote a dozen or so poems, several of which I did eventually get published. I wrote short stories—though brevity is really not my thing—and my first ever attempt at a novel. It started out as a recount of my senior year ski trip and the boy I was dating (okay, I had brevity down where he was concerned) and then it morphed into a what-if story. Not that I pined away for him (AT ALL), but I just liked the what-if game. As a matter of fact, I still like the what-if game. No, I love it. It’s just too much fun.

Writing keeps me sane, writing lets me get bottled-up things out and writing lets me create my version of the “what-if” game to my heart’s content. I can’t imagine not writing—even if I’m the only one who ever sees it. It’s a huge part of who I am and I wouldn’t change a thing.