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I fell in love with reading romances, then proceeded to glom every book I could get my hands on until one day, I just knew I had to try my hand at writing. I wrote the first chapter, and I was so excited. My dream was new, fragile. I went over to my mother's and just had to tell her or I would burst with excitement. She said I wasn't smart enough to write a book. My dream shattered because I knew she was right. I never told anyone else.
For several years, I didn't write, but I could never throw that first chapter away. Then one day, my thirteen-year old son was digging through some things, and found that first chapter. He read it, then came into the living room where I was, and asked why I'd quit writing. He said the chapter was really good. What could I say? That one person told me I couldn't do something, and I believed them? My son grew up, married, and became a teacher, but he was already a teacher long before he got his degree.
I started writing again after my son told me he thought it was pretty good writing. I told my husband what my dreams were, and with his encouragement, I never let anyone tell me I couldn't be a writer. It took me another six years before I sold my first book, and I was beyond thrilled. When I told my mother the news, Mom said she hadn't wanted me to be disappointed. I realized then how many times she had been disappointed in her life.
My mother passed away two months before my first book came out, but she got to see the cover, and I told her I had dedicated it to her, and I read the dedication to her. Maybe I knew she wouldn't live long enough to hold my book in her hands. My mother was my motivation. I wanted her to see that dreams can come true.
I write nearly every day, not because I have to, but because I want to. I have stories inside me that I want to tell.
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