I‘ve always loved writing. The freedom in it. The ability to create something out of nothing. The magic of using words to make things happen as you want them.
The first story I have a real memory of writing was one about fairies and a giant that I wrote in the eighth grade. In college, I took a creative writing course, where I wrote a short story about a teenage girl whose dad didn’t allow rock ‘n’ roll in the house.
What I remember the most about both of these stories is not the characters or the plot, but the fun. I loved writing them.
I kept a journal in college, but I didn’t try writing a novel until about seven years ago. And it happened by accident.
Much like my novel’s main character, I lost my teaching dream and felt so lost, I could barely stand without feeling disoriented. And so I wrote about it. And I wrote. And I wrote. And before long, I stepped back and looked at my pain displayed in words, and I thought, I may have something here. Lily Morgan was born.
I created some characters and subplots. I added scenes and chapters. I edited these same scenes and chapters over and over again. I wrote some more. I didn’t know what I was doing, but I loved it. Hours would pass before I’d realize it. I joined an online writing community called Scribophile, which helped motivate me even more to finish.
And I did. The result is my 99k women’s fiction novel, I’m Only Me. I owe so much to this manuscript. It saved me from sinking in a time in my life when I had an anchor tied to both ankles.
I’m hoping this year my manuscript lands in the right hands, and I can share it with you.