One frequently asked question for an author is, “Have you always known you were a writer?” And each time, I replied, “Absolutely not.”
It’s like this. When I was in grade seven, I stood up in front of my long-suffering classmates, heart hammering in my skinny chest, and droned out my first public speaking assignment—a memorized essay I’d compiled about dinosaurs. I covered the Triassic, Jurassic, and Cretaceous waterfronts. At least ten of my classmates dozed off and one appeared to fall into a full-fledged coma, alarming my teacher. Indeed, my performance was so pitiful, he gave me another chance. “You have until Monday morning to redeem yourself, young lady,” he intoned.
Being a staunch advocate of pain avoidance and a coward to boot, I turned the problem over to my mother. She rose to the occasion and spent the weekend writing a delightfully funny story entitled, “On Housebreaking a Puppy.” On Monday at 10:00 a.m., I delivered a brilliant essay that knocked the socks off my delighted classmates and a relieved teacher. Nobody fell asleep this time. My classmates thought I had developed a sense of humor over the weekend, and my mother and I received an ‘A’ for our efforts.
After that, I figured, why mess with success? My mother wrote a few more polished pieces brimming with adult humor to round out my elementary school writing career, and I slunk into high school with high marks and low self-esteem. Feeling like a total fraud, I made no attempt to write another creative word outside of school and career assignments for several decades.
Fast forward several decades. In June 2005, I was restless in my I.T. career. A good friend and primo energy healer (she refers to herself as a ‘soul healer’) called up our spiritual Guides, Guardians, Masters, and Gatekeepers to channel an unforgettable session during which I made a life-changing decision. I walked out of her house knowing I would write books. Not dry, boring, technical treatises or management reports, but fresh, funny and feel-good novels.
And so the journey began.