When I was a little girl, little as in 4th grade, I announced to myself I was going to become a famous author. I began writing stories, vast tomes (four pages in pre-teen cursive, skip a line) about a wonderful palomino mare named, Golden Sunshine. I shudder at the admission.
These stories started out wildly ambitious, but they died right after describing in glorious sensory detail my wonder horse. I desperately wanted to ride off into the sunset, but I couldn’t figure out the words in between.
Fast forward to a much wiser woman whose horse days are behind her. Yes, I acquired a majestic animal, an appaloosa gelding, mean as could be, but that is a story for another time. Although the equine dreams faded, the goal of being an author never paled. It rested, lying dormant and germinating until just recently. After many false starts, a story took hold, and grew. The in between was no longer an issue. My fingers flew across the keyboard, no longer relegated to a number two pencil and wide rule paper, and I lost myself in the tale. In the wee hours of the morning, I would have to stop to read what I just wrote, because I really had no idea. The story became alive. I was no longer in charge, but rather a muse deep inside me guided my creation.
They say write about what you know. That was the problem with the child author. Golden Sunshine was an aching desire, but I didn’t have the experience, nor the knowledge to fake it. This time, I wrote about the things I love. I wrote about teenagers and their hopes and hurts. I wrote about the restorative nature of the mountains. By channelling my inner transcendentalist, I gave birth to my first novel.
The birth of my two boys was difficult. In contrast, the novel slid out easily. Raising the boys has been a joy. Editing the novel, a pain in the butt. Yet, as I watch my boys grow into men, I understand that my novel will also mature. It will take hard work and a strong will… and patience. Ask my boys if I have patience. They will laugh!
