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My name, as you're probably already aware of, is Shirley Glynn. I have lead a very full life - raising three children, working, both out and at home - all of the "normal" things a lot of women used to do. Things have changed today - more career women and less stay-at-homes like I was. People of my age have been referred to as the Silent Generation (I must be the exception, as no one ever accused me of being "silent").
When my children had grown, my then-husband and I sold our home and bought a motor home, in which we traveled a good share of the United States. That was probably the first time in my life that I actually left my home town for more than two weeks.
During one of those periods when I had time on my hands, I wrote a little story about an incident that had happened to me when my children were very young and I found myself raising them alone. A very short story about a scary weekend when the flat I lived in had a prowler roaming around in the empty flat above me. Never did anything with it - just put it in a drawer.
After retirement (the first time), I took it out, turned it into a novel and joined a book critiquing group. Then (as happens with life) I found myself returning to work and the novel stayed in my computer, partially rewritten.
When I finally went back to writing, at the encouragement of the love of my life - my husband, I wrote a few short stories, found out that my more-than-vivid imagination could be very interesting if I applied it to paper.
And so we're up to date (with a lot of gaps), some of which I'm sure the reader would find fascinating (maybe someday).
Very soon now I'm going back to my "Great American Novel", which is a fictionalized version of that long-ago weekend.
But a good one, so I've been told.