You probably can’t handle the premise of my very first story, written in my journal, in first grade. But let’s try.
Obviously, I was the main character. Don’t worry. I was rescued by my secret crush (a kid named Ryan, I think) from a dastardly puddle that I fell in in the middle of winter. Apparently I just laid there? Maybe I went into a coma. I was a dramatic child.
Just to set the scene a little more: I wore a sweatpants suit. Yep. A sweatpants suit. It was the 90’s, all right? The color of said sweatpants suit? Wait for it . . .
It only improved from there. I wrote all the time. But I was shy about it. No one read my stories. Everything was password protected. If my friends came over, I’d quickly close it and pretend I’d been, I don’t know, playing Minesweeper. (90’s, remember?)
I grew up. My writing grew with me. Then I graduated high school and went to college.
Although I have a Bachelors of Nursing and I worked as a cardiac and pediatric nurse for eight years, the writing never stopped. Finally, I decided to give publishing a shot. I released Miss Mabel’s School for Girls and it took off.
Although I worked and wrote for years, now I write as much as I can with a feral child running amok in my never-really-clean house. And still, after all these years, the writing has never stopped.
I don’t anticipate it ever will.