One day, instead of writing the newspaper article I was assigned, I wrote a short story. It was fun and the story was pretty good. So, I wrote some more stories, and I got them critiqued by a real writer. I took those stories and got into grad school for Creative Writing where I learned some things about rigor and technique. I also made some cool friends and went to readings and wore black and went to Rome and learned how to order delicious food and chat with sleek Roman men in Italian.
After I graduated, I started teaching smart college students how to write and research. Those were dark days. I believe teaching is a calling, and it was calling the wrong number when I answered. To make matters worse, my students were good writers. And I was spending all of my time helping them get better. (I was doing other things too – researching, marketing, writing business documents.) I wasn’t happy.
I wanted to write a book. So, I quit my jobs and moved out of my sweet apartment in Philadelphia. My dog and I went to a cabin in the woods without running water or electricity, and I wrote my first novel, The Hard Way, in 6 weeks.
I sent the book to the most superb agent I could find, and she liked it. She signed me. Then she pounded the pavement and sold it. And now I’m the writer I always dreamed I’d be…wait, I didn’t always dream I’d be a writer. I’m the writer I never dreamed I’d be.
If you’re interested in knowing more about me, go to my blog. I’m usually jawing about something there. Oh, and thanks for reading.