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And so I begin. Not really sure what I'm doing here ... is this a spot to muse on life, on writing? On what? Maybe a bit of everything.
I suppose I'll just see what happens.
A bit of background is in order, I suppose.
I was born in 1951 (you do the math -- I quit counting!) in a very small town in Central California. It was what I consider to be an idyllic life. We played outside from dawn to dusk without worrying about a stranger snatching us up. We had tv, but not all that much of it. No video games -- only board games, jump ropes, hopscotch, dolls, and books. Lots of time outside playing "pretend" games of all kinds. "Let's pretend we're cowboys ... we're princesses ... we're pirates." I wish kids today could have the same kind of freedom to run and play, but I know that's just not possible in today's world. Not to say they still can't play more and rely on video games and tv less.
My great-grandmother was quite a character. She lived to be 93 and was active and full of spunk until the end, taking swimming lessons at 87 because she'd never learned to swim. She was also a story-teller of the finest degree. One of my earlier memories is of her gruff voice rumbling against my back as she held me on her lap and told me her old-fashioned tales. I like to think that's where my desire to tell stories came from.
Anyway, life happens. I married, had two sons, and spent the next 20 years raising them and being an active volunteer at their schools and PTA and Little League. Then one day they both grew up and I wondered what was next. Back to work? To school? And then I turned 50.
I've always been a late bloomer. I blame it on that great-grandma who took swimming lessons at 87. After the first wave of shock that I could be getting (gasp!) old, I felt a tidal wave of freedom. I could stop worrying about what people thought. I could do whatever I wanted.
I wanted to write.
And so I did.
I suppose I'll just see what happens.
A bit of background is in order, I suppose.
I was born in 1951 (you do the math -- I quit counting!) in a very small town in Central California. It was what I consider to be an idyllic life. We played outside from dawn to dusk without worrying about a stranger snatching us up. We had tv, but not all that much of it. No video games -- only board games, jump ropes, hopscotch, dolls, and books. Lots of time outside playing "pretend" games of all kinds. "Let's pretend we're cowboys ... we're princesses ... we're pirates." I wish kids today could have the same kind of freedom to run and play, but I know that's just not possible in today's world. Not to say they still can't play more and rely on video games and tv less.
My great-grandmother was quite a character. She lived to be 93 and was active and full of spunk until the end, taking swimming lessons at 87 because she'd never learned to swim. She was also a story-teller of the finest degree. One of my earlier memories is of her gruff voice rumbling against my back as she held me on her lap and told me her old-fashioned tales. I like to think that's where my desire to tell stories came from.
Anyway, life happens. I married, had two sons, and spent the next 20 years raising them and being an active volunteer at their schools and PTA and Little League. Then one day they both grew up and I wondered what was next. Back to work? To school? And then I turned 50.
I've always been a late bloomer. I blame it on that great-grandma who took swimming lessons at 87. After the first wave of shock that I could be getting (gasp!) old, I felt a tidal wave of freedom. I could stop worrying about what people thought. I could do whatever I wanted.
I wanted to write.
And so I did.
