I wrote my first novel at the age of six. It was titled “The Mouse,” and was two pages long—including illustrations! My mother saved that first edition and every now and then, I take it out and smile over it.
When my beloved husband of many years suddenly died, I’d come home after a long day of work and write. Writing allowed me to pour out all my sadness. Then, the more I wrote, the more I realized I would go on. I would be happy, I had a lot of living to do, and love stories to tell.
I’m published now in Romance novels and an anthology of short stories. But my first two manuscripts still reside on a CD somewhere in my house. I can’t bear to erase them because they’re mine, they’re loved, and like a crazy relative one hides in the attic, they reside in a quiet, safe place.