I remember the moment I started to write. I was four or five, sitting in a rickety desk and waiting for my ballet class to start. One of my parents (my memory tells me it was my father, but it was more likely my mother) gave me a piece of lined paper with block letters spaced across the top line. I was told to try to replicate those letters. With my fat pencil, I scratched "B-R-O-O-K-E" into the pulpy paper. My hand writing was awful, but I was hooked.

 

I filled dairies, journals, spare pieces of paper, and notes with words. No stories took shape. Mostly, I just wrote about what was happening in my life. I also wrote about all the great books I was learning to read. I tried to write mysteries to rival Nancy Drew, but I never finished, which became my MO for YEARS.

 

In ninth grade, my English teacher tasked us with writing a story about our favorite room. I loved my babysitter's kitchen. She was from Japan, and the smells that came out the pots on the stove were unbelievable. I did my best to give good details like my teacher taught us. I got A+!  Not only did I get a good grade, but she told everyone in the class how well-written my essay was. It was the first time anyone had ever told me I wrote well. It added to my self esteem tank but not much.

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I still kept random journals throughout high school and college. I never finished anything. Not one completed idea or story. After I got married to a police officer, I channeled my anxieties into a novel about a family affected by the death of an officer. I didn't finish it, either.  Plus, it was terrible.

 

Throughout this adult time, I had two babies, which really cut into my life, in general. I couldn't shower, let alone write something that made sense beyond "blah, blah, blah." At one point, I started writing funny posts on Facebook about the crazy women in my affluent suburb. My friends kept telling me to start a blog. I finally decided to do it. However, once I put up a few posts, ladies in my neighborhood got pissed. I abandoned that blog and started one under a pen name. I was so happy to write all sorts of fun pieces, even if only two of my friends and my mother read them. Then, some Russian hackers dug their claws into my baby blog. I didn't know how to make it stop or how to protect a website. I'm a speech therapist who likes to write.  What do I know about tech security?  Anyway, I shut down the blog to avoid viruses and annoying glitches in my code.

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A good thing came out of that second blog, though. I had several stories that I actually finished! One of them was about my crazy childhood without any electricity or running water (seriously.  No joke.  Read "My First (Big) Writing Accomplishment")  I polished it up and submitted to the Writer's Digest Writing Competition. I waited several months to hear the results. There were thousands of entries. As time stretched, I figured I didn't have a chance. I got an Honorable Mention! I didn't win the grand prize of $5,000 and a meeting with an agent, but I won a prize for my writing. I wrote more short stories and articles, four of which got published on a parenting site. I was so proud of myself that I kept my first check and hung it over my desk (It's still there). 

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That prize gave me the inspiration to finish my first manuscript. I taught myself about the publishing industry, how to write a query, how to find an agent, etc. etc. I joined a writing group, who held me accountable and helped me to keep writing and editing. I got a Twitter handle, which opened a whole new world to me.  

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Now, even though I actually finished that first manuscript, that doesn't mean anyone wanted to read it. I got 40 rejections before I shelved it and moved onto something else. I finally got an agent with my fifth manuscript. Never give up. Find your people. Never stop writing.