When I was little I went to a tiny school in
Oak Run, California. Haven't heard of it? Yeah, I'm not surprised. It's tiny. Beyond tiny, really. At least it was back then. It was the pin drop on top of the pin drop, but it was home. My family lived on top of a mountain ( at least it was a mountain to me as a little girl) on six acres, in a donut hole of three hundred acres and a gravel quarry. We had horses, and pigs, dogs, and a few cats, and the occasional bit of wildlife like rattlesnakes and mountain lions (EEEEKKK!). It was near heaven for me. In that little class, a combined second, third and fourth grade class (so that we could hit thirty students total), My teacher Bobbi Eastwood, challenged us second graders to write a story.
I had struggled with reading in Kindergarten and first grade, doctors blamed it on my premature birth, just a few weeks, but enough to mess with learning processes. By second grade, I finally "sling shotted", this is the actual term the doctor used with my mom. My brain caught up and I flew ahead of my classmates, devouring every Nancy Drew I could find. So, when Mrs. Eastwood told us to write a story, I was ready. I'm sure she meant, write a paragraph maybe two, it was after all only second grade. Not me, I had a story to tell and I was going to tell it. I remember I weaved a tale about a vaquera, a Spanish cowgirl, that wanted to ride a while horse. I still have the story, because it was the first one I ever wrote. There is no structure, no clear purpose or plot, but man, it had passion. Six pages later, the story was told. I think Mrs. Eastwood was really surprised when I plopped that assignment down on her desk and it landed with a sort of thud, as opposed to the other assignments that were single sheets of paper.
This began my love affair with the written word. A fire had been lit and I was not going to stop. My third grade assignment was a tall tale that we had to write in a vertical format, mounted on construction paper. Mine was the longest in the class, complete with a donkey's tail at the bottom, because really, what is a tall tale without a literal tail?
Yes, I have always been snarky.
We moved away from that mountain top, but we stayed country, we kept the horses, and we added a cow, at least occasionally, and my writing habit did not stop. In Junior High and High School I started writing for my friends, little bits of fan fiction, stories that revolved around the top boy bands of the late 90's and early 2000's, N*Sync and 98 Degrees. At one point in time I had a story about 98 Degrees and my best friend and I that was so long, the pages filled up a full moving box! I selected my College major based on my life goals. English Major; I was was going to be an author.
I had a teacher my senior year, Jack Sanchez. I had him for a creative writing class, and then I taught as a student instructor for him the next year. He would tell me I was good at what I did, but over and over again he would chant, "Simplify, Simplify, Simplify". He also told me that I would never make it as a writer if I did not start drinking and living a bit more.
You see, I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, LDS, or rather Mormon, and Mr. Sanchez never approved. Still, I held my ground. I was star eyed and ready to be freed on the world, as most high school seniors are.
In college, I wrote for my roommates, my first stab at real fiction, and they began to chant "Story time!" at the end of a long day. It felt good to share what I had written. Up until this point, I wrote, but I rarely shared any of it. For the first time, I let people into my secret world. The world where characters talked to each other in my head, where the conversations begged to be made free. I let them see a glimpse of the secret world of this renegade gypsy cowgirl, and to my surprise, they liked it!
I met my future husband when I was only 19. Neither of us was interested in marriage, isn't that how it goes? But within a year, we were married, just three days after my 20th birthday. I was determined to keep up, push on and get published. About a month after our marriage, I finished writing my first book, an LDS genre novel called, "Wednesday Cooking". It chronicled so much of my time in college, but on a larger than life scale, and I was sure Covenant Communications was going to pick it up in a heartbeat.
That first letter of rejection stung, and it hurt worse than any disappointment in my life. I am sorry to say, it stopped me for a long time. Eventually I wrote a second book, "Raising Allie", also LDS genre. I could see my growth between the two books and I was as hopeful as ever. But two rejections came, though not as quickly, and it cut deep. My dream of becoming a leading LDS author faded with each rejection. Many friends and some family told me to give up, it was a nice hobby, but I would never succeed. We bought a house, and I got a real job. Dreams of writing to the masses were put on hold, like they were just the fanciful dreams of a child. I changed my major and started to pursue a real career, as so many so
sweetly put it. Psychology major, with a goal to work as a marriage and family therapist.
Three years ago I received some news, new about my health that would mold the rest of my life. It is funny what emotions go through your mind when someone tells you that nothing about you life as you know it will ever be the same. Plans were derailed, my health became the forefront of our family's goals and reality shifted, but only those closest to me knew about it, after all I am diseased, but I am diseased in disguise. I went through all the stages of mourning, because I was in reality mourning the loss of my health. I went through denial, where I tried to move at the same supermom rate I had always moved at. Nope, Not possible. When I went through the anger phase, I took on a project stripping and staining our dining room table. Somewhere in the midst of it, the blinding rage took over and the table became distressed. Chains, hammers,screwdrivers, and any other blunt tool I could find, helped me to vent the frustration I felt. It is now my favorite piece of furniture. Somewhere around acceptance, I remembered my love of writing, and for the first time in nearly a decade, I could hear the voices again.
I wrote my Kelsey series first, nearly eight months in total to start and finish. I enlisted my sister and a dear friend to help motivate me and keep it rolling. I had no outline, no real plan, I only knew I had to write, even force it if necessary. I wrote in the night, magic hours between midnight and three am. Until finally, around the end of September, I finished. I didn't care about publication, I only reveled in the knowledge that I could still write, and people enjoyed reading it. My friend, Ruth, challenged me to do the Nanowrimo challenge, 70,000 word novel in one month. I had just finished the Kelsey series, and I was tired. I did not think I had it in me, but as the November start date loomed, I committed and began.
I suggest
Nanowrimo to anyone that enjoys writing. It is the most freeing exercise for any writer, no matter the skill level. And for the firs time, I did not write in the LDS genre, I wrote mainstream. It was like trying on a new fit of jeans for the first time in my life, after wearing the same brand for years. I never expected anyone to read it, and that is what made it so fun. In the LDS genre, there are rules, so many rules, but in Nanowrimo, there is just you and the voices. So, I wrote Addison's story. I not only completed the challenge, but I wrote the entire story 85,000 words by the end, in 17 days. I could not stop. Every spare second I had, I was at my computer, living and breathing Addison's story. And when I finished, what could I do, but write another? By February, I wrote the first draft of
Nightwatch. My sister went nuts over that one, a perfect marriage of love and action, and she pushed like she never had pushed before for me to self publish and take that leap.
As you can see, just like in the second grade, I still ramble for pages and pages, but here I am leaping; chasing after a dream that I have had my entire life. When it comes down to it, there is very little I would regret not doing before I die. I would regret not loving my husband, or raising my daughter with all my heart and adoration, but I would not regret missing out Disneyland, or owning a Maserati. I am very happy and very content with my simple life here in the country. However, when I was faced with the reality of a life possibly cut short, I knew, with every fiber of my being, I would regret if my life came to an end and I had not told the stories I want to tell. So here's to leaps, and standing on the limp so thin it just might crack. Here is to taking chances and letting yourself be vulnerable. Here's to life. May we live it.
A view of the neighbors patio. ---Can't you just see two nosy old ladies watching Adam running the stairs while they sip their morning tea?
I keep waiting for Adam to come tearing up these stairs..... just sayin'....Anyone else?
Imagine dragging your easel up all these stairs, just to have it crash all the way to the bottom. I think of that every time I walk up.
But then to turn around and see a white rose at the top of the landing. 
