(In case you were trying to read the caption on my coffee cup, it’s Irish Gaelic and translates:  “The traveler has tales to tell.”)

My dad was a story-teller.  It’s only now, looking back, that I appreciate what a vivid imagination he had!  He made up a whole series of adventures involving our neighbor’s cat:  Mopsy, and another one with a little old man and a cuckoo clock that always saved the day.  Anyway, I come by my love of stories and books, naturally.

I loved taking notes in school and writing letters to my friends who moved to Florida when I was a little girl.  I kept a diary from the time I was eight years old right up to about age fourteen. I still have some of the notebooks I filled with poetry when I was a teenager.  I excelled in English, ignored it to the detriment of my other subjects, yet was never encouraged to pursue it as a career.   Cést la vie.

I went to college, majored in marketing, learned to write ad copy and design polls and surveys.  Graduated in a time of recession and couldn’t get a job.  I was Winona Ryder in “Reality Bites,” in other words, floundering.

(Image credit “Reality Bites” 1994)

I even ended up working at the Gap!  (Sharp intake of breath.  I heard you.)  That job is what ultimately led me to pursue a career change.  At twenty-one, I found myself with such back pain, I could barely walk.  Long story short, chiropractic saved the day and I found my new calling.  I went back to school, started working in my field, got married, etc.  Suddenly, I realized it had been years since I thought about writing.

One day, I guess about two years ago, I was sitting in the stylist’s chair at the hair salon, touching up the blonde and reading my book to pass the time. My stylist said to me, “You’re always reading. Did you ever want to write a book yourself?” “Sure,” I laughed. “Doesn’t every reader want to be a writer?” “You should do it,” she said. “Hmm,” I thought. “But what am I going to write about?”  That’s what I’ll tell you about next time!