I have heard that everyone has a best-selling novel inside, just waiting for release from the prison of the brain so it can romp about on a page, happily entertaining anyone who takes the time to read it. Uh… okay. Maybe that’s true.
I have heard that everyone has a story. That is true. Most people never get their story out the for anyone else to read. Many people never even tell their story to someone else. Why? Maybe fear of revealing something they deem as terrible from the past. Maybe the answer is far simpler. They never took the time.
Life is so busy, it is nearly impossible to find time to write.
I MAKE time to write. Does that make me a writer? Nah…. I am a writer because I say I am a writer.
I was born in the 1950’s, live in a 122-year-old house in Virginia, I am retired, have an alcoholic brother living in my downstairs bedroom, and spend a great deal of my time writing. I have lived through the Kennedy assassination, civil rights, Neil Armstrong on the moon, and 9/11/2001. I have seen the Vietnam war, the war in Middle East, the war on drugs, Star Wars, and the war between men and woman. I have written hundreds of short stories and essays and a handful of novels. Only one novel was (self) published and one poem published in a collection.
I crochet, cook, have a veggie garden, an herb garden, a chicken coop full of chickens and I’m not afraid to try new things. I am not sustainable because I live in a city with a city-sized yard. Even with all of that, my favorite tool is my keyboard.
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