I can’t remember a time I didn’t love books. I can recall when I was seven, sitting in the corner of my grandmother’s couch enthralled with a volume of folk tales and myths from other countries, which came with the encyclopedia set my mother had purchased.
One of my favorite places growing up was the small public library where I could lose myself for hours in the aisles housing the historical novels, most written by men. In fact, two of my all-time favorites were books discovered then.
Of course, I absorbed the works of Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters, and when I discovered Georgette Heyer, I was in heaven. (A list of my ‘favorite’ authors could fill a page)
I loved writing, as well as reading. The summer between the seventh and eighth grades, a friend and I spread blankets beneath an old oak at the foot of our lawn on the farm and wrote a pot-boiler of a story about a tribal uprising in a far-off land and the heroic hunter who save the beautiful heroine’s life. The story was truly awful.
In college, my dream was to be a writer, but life took a different turn. After a stint as an insurance health claims adjuster, I finished my first degree, then took a job in newspapers. I worked mostly at a small daily so my two sons could attend a small town school. I enjoyed being a reporter and, later, an editor. Even after I became a teacher, my summers were spent at area newspapers or magazines. I still do an occasional feature story.
But it wasn’t until after my husband died unexpectedly a few years ago that I decided to try my hand at fiction. At last. I opted for other changes then, too. I gave up teaching journalism and English full time at a small college. Now I work part time at a local community college as an English instructor. This gives me time to write.
I love creating stories of other times and places, of heroines ‘to dies for’ and heroes to live for. Of happy endings.
I hope you like them too.