I always wanted to be a writer. Not just any writer, a writer like those I had seen in pictures. The ones who sat alone at a table or desk with freshly inked paper stacked next to their typewriter. That image evoked a feeling I can still taste. They looked at peace and at home in those pictures. I wanted to be them. And I knew deep down that that was where I belonged. I still carry those images in my mind. They’re vivid snapshots forever seared in my memory—the smile on their faces, the gleam in their eyes, and the armor of their craft.
I call it armor because it was my protection. My imagination served as that armor for most, if not all, of my life. Books and reading too, introduced to me when I was still quite young. Novels I read eagerly day after day and my computer and stories much later.
I began reading fiction at an early age. I loved teen romance, if you could even call it that. They were just sweet stories that I read by the dozens. Then, when I was a bit older I found Sidney Sheldon and Jackie Collins—and my life changed forever. I still get chills thinking of those books and stories. Romance remains at the top of my reading list today. Julie Garwood, Sherrilyn Kenyon, Cherry Adair, and Karen Marie Moning are only a few of my favorite authors.
I realize now that while my imagination served me well for years, sharing my world with others is what I was truly meant to do. I know this because it’s where I feel most alive. Sitting at my desk, with freshly inked paper stacked next to my laptop, is my favorite place to be. Today it’s a safe, freeing place, filled with joy.
It’s been a long hard journey, but my soul is finally home.
And you are always welcome.