Straight from a poor but carefree childhood in the Great Depression in Beverly, MA, I danced on to big fat mistakes, then "alone" with five children, the nomad life in an eight by eight tent; happy to be free because I had never learned the fine art of worrying. I worked myself to a modest success after realizing that a talent for designing houses had come with the package when I was born, as did a sense of integrity that served me well. World travels fulfilled my little girl dreams. At last, I'm settling down and going cuckoo trying to push a few hundred thousand words through the publishing mill before I die and they're lost forever. Major influence: my genes. My great grandmother, Emma Woodsome Withee, who was born in 1847, managed to bequeath me her talent, spirit and brains when I was born. Thank you, Grandma. Oh yes, and the many months I spent on Grandpa's farm in Maine when my parents were too poor to feed us. Ah, those smells! Still linger in my senses like the scent of honeysuckle on a summer eve.
A swift peek at my travels before I forget where I've been:
Around the World on a Chinese cargo ship; Rio De Janeiro, Buenos Aires, the Atlantic Ocean, South Africa, Mozambique, Zululand, The Indian Ocean, Singapore, Taiwan, Japan, Hong Kong, The Pacific Ocean, Kittimat and ports in between. Panama Canal. Long winters in Spain, Voodoo in Haiti, Mayan Ruins, Months of Kasbahs in Morocco, India, from Bombay to Calcutta and north, winters all over Mexico. Freighters to Caracas, Guyana, Surinam, Stranded on the Orinoco River, The Atlantic Ocean again, Montreal, The Atlantic again, The Mediterranean, months all over Spain, Genoa, Naples, Rome, Trieste and the rest of Italy, Yugoslavia from North to South by car, and train to Bulgaria, Turkey, Greece, then Israel, and points beyond. The Atlantic again. Six provinces, Camping in most of the US states.Twenty or so islands in the Caribbean. And then some.
My ego quotient hovers around zero but my fans convince me that my novels, memoirs, poetry, short stories, big fat lies and fables are meant to be read by the whole wide world. Recently, I discovered about 15,000 words of their praises. If you can bear reading about someone else's successes, they're yours for the asking.
Why don't publishers come knocking on your door like the Fuller Brush Man did when I was a kid?