I have kept a hand-written journal since I was child, now many, many decades ago. I remember sitting down when I was about seven years old and deciding to "write a book." I had no idea what I wanted to write about, only that I did. I cut several binder sheets into halves, folded them in half again and fumbled around with a stapler until they were somehow attached. My recollection is that I stared at the blank pages for a long time. In the end, I drew a (very poor) picture of a horse, gave it some sort of endearing name and then set the papers aside, choosing an easier path, that which led me outside to play.
And so it still is. I stare at blank paper sometimes. I choose to go out to play sometimes. But the love of the written word always draws me back to the pages. Many years of freelance travel writing allowed me to wander cross-country twelve times, recording back road adventures. I adored it. Yet all along, that seven year old kept whispering to me that a book still needed to be written.
I fell directly from travel writing into fiction in the most natural way. Heading south from Montana on what was to be yet another cross-country trip, I slid into Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and simply stopped driving. I knew the story was there and those stapled pages are now filled and titled, "Above the Bridge."
I no longer try to draw horses, much to the relief of those unfortunates who've been subjected to my poor graphic skills. But I do love creating stories. And plan to create more in the future.