My first memory of writing was a book I made at the age of five. It was titled, “The House That Moved.” The story, like all five year old’s stories, was simple but amazingly had a theme: a home can be anywhere, so long as it has a family. I suppose that impressed the Jack Pine Reading Council who gave me a ribbon and hardback copy of my story for winning. At the time I still wanted to be a ballerina (and the cruel reality of my lack of height and bone structure didn’t yet enter my thoughts) but I knew I liked telling stories and, more over, I liked the feeling I got knowing that my stories made people happy.
So, flash forward a few years to the school bus rides that were FAR too long. We lived on the county line and ours was probably the longest bus ride out there. Being the awkwardly loud and obnoxious child with the wild hair and odd skin condition, I found a great way to keep busy and entertain my peers (and would be bullies) – I told them about the dreams I’d had that night before. Of course my dreams always involved the other children on the bus and usually whatever movie or cartoon was all the rage at the moment. I learned some of the best tools for storytelling in those diesel-fumed hours – how to get emotional reactions from people and how to keep them interested.
As I grew I started keeping journals. Mountains of them. Most of them were riddled with my childhood angst, anger, and frustrations… but a few of them managed to be filled with long form poetry and stories that interested me – everything from spies to aliens & Count Dracula. Even as my tastes in books evolved (thanks to boxes and boxes of paperbacks, mostly romances, in my mother’s basement) so too did my writing.
In my last three years of High School I managed to get a cherry of a gig that let me go to the library for an hour each day and I spent it on the early 90s computers, typing and saving on my only 3.5 disk which was given to me as a gift from an English teacher. The story was an improvement on something I’d dreamed up with my childhood best friend, a fan fiction type love letter to the TV Show Scarecrow & Mrs. King. Looking back on it, it needed work… but when completed it was very similar to the plot of Spy Kids & just about 100K words. Printed out via dot matrix, it could have killed someone. I let a boy from my creative writing class read it… I deeply respected his opinion and I waited for what I was SURE would be his unending praises.
What I got was less than kind. I burned my first novel that night and didn’t write again for years.
In my twenties I got involved with role-playing and learned to embrace my awkward overly enthusiastic self – and I met people whose lives weren’t so different from my own. They were people with varied interests, people who were different, people who were “weird” and “random” and … I knew then that I wasn’t just OK as I was… I was pretty damn awesome. I met my husband in those years and since then have focused on doing all the things we tell ourselves we SHOULD do: job, home, kid.
Now it’s time to do what I WANT to be doing. I want to entertain people again. I want to tell stories that make you laugh, that make you cry, and make you jump for joy. I want you to root for the underdog, pray that the lovers get together, and that the corrupt government agencies don’t defeat the hero. And that’s why you’re here, right? You want to be entertained or maybe you like entertaining people too.
Well, you’ve come to the right place.