Thoughts of a Well-Intentioned Blogger on New Year's Eve

I had the very best of intentions when I began this blog. After all, writers write, right? (we won't discuss how long it's been since my last installment here). But after many years of writing only for myself, and then somehow stumbling into writing novels, I've guarded my words carefully. It's daunting at times, throwing your words out there in the world for anyone and everyone to read. They might have meaning to some, but for every person who thanks you for those words, there's a bully, an internet troll, or just a general jerk to tell you that you stink. I should know by now to ignore the bullies, trolls, and jerks though because that's part of life, but I find myself occasionally hurt by their words because I'm sensitive. I'm a writer. I feel deeply...about most everything. So, I guard my words carefully, and I gather them up and protect them from the world, and I squander them. And I get sidetracked...more easily than I'd like to admit. So I don't make an ideal blogger. I've determined now, at least for me, that the word BLOG means that I don't post frequently "Because Life Often Gets...in...the...way."

I don't post often and I don't even care to. But, when I do, I really have something to say. I mean, kudos to all those people who publish daily blogs and pictures and recipes and helpful ideas, but it's just not my thing. But, by all means, you bloggers go ahead and keep doing what you do!

So, here I am on New Year's Eve, and I have all these thoughts racing through my mind. Like, why didn't I publish a book during this calendar year? Well, I've realized that life really does get in the way of writing, but also in the way of thinking...and creating. And I refuse to force words just to put something between the cover of a book. Hopefully my readers will understand that and will happily welcome my next installment into the Rose series with open arms. I want her story to be intriguing and unique and realistic, so I won't ruin it with words that don't come easily.

This year has been unique for me in many ways. I am continually met with new challenges from my autoimmune disorder (Mixed Connective Tissue Disease  - MCTD) and some days I can't bring myself to accomplish much. Honestly, that gets in the way of my writing, too. And I hate that my physical limitations can mess with the words that my heart, soul, and mind work so diligently to create. Such is life though...we all have a cross of some kind to bear, and I accept that this is mine. Maybe when I don't feel like creating as many words it causes me to hoard them even more. But, I vow to be kind to my body, and to not mentally flog myself when I don't feel like pounding out pages and pages of manuscript.

Another thought about this year is of all the celebrity losses. Us creative types are admiring of each others' works. For example, I seldom write without listening to music, and the musical losses of this year have been been astounding. It saddens me to know that there will be no new lyrics from these people...no new songs for me to leave on repeat as I write my next novel. People like me take these losses personally, even though we had no actual personal connection to those artists.

My husband, Joel, and I at Edinburgh Castle in July 2016

However, despite my challenges and losses, this year surprised me with the opportunity to travel. I almost declined the offer because I wasn't sure I could endure the long walks, hurried airport dashes from gate to gate, and physical demands that come with travel abroad. Somehow, my husband assured me I could make it, and so I booked the ticket. Oh, how glad I am that I did. I celebrated my 20th wedding anniversary with roses and a view of the Edinburgh Castle from my hotel window.




Later that evening, we visited chilly but beautiful Portobello Beach, had champagne by the coast

and surprisingly met up with the ever lovely Nicola who we had only talked to online until that night.

 I walked the streets of Edinburgh this summer, met friends in Dublin with whom I'd had online conversations with for over a decade at an Elvis Costello concert

and even had lunch with Rita, who was surprisingly in the same area of Dublin at the same time.

I visited the Edinburgh Writer's Museum...a religious experience for anyone who feels the need to put thoughts into words.






I winced in pain as I climbed those tiny concrete stairs in that beautiful building, but I did it with pride.



















And I cried as I stood before the desk of Robert Burns, and I cried again when I went back to see it two days later.














You see, Mr. Burns is one of my favorite people. And as I stood there in my Rosy Tieks, next to his words and next to his statue, I felt a giant of a man next to my tiny feet.                                                                       

 

He wrote Auld Lang Syne, the traditional song sung every New Year's Eve...a song I often refer to in my books. Since he and I were born a few centuries apart, seeing his belongings was as close of a meeting with him as I'll ever get.

I visited Trinity College Library in Dublin, saw The Book of Kells,










and lost my breath temporarily upon entering The Long Room.

Another love of mine, though strange to some, is visiting cemeteries. Some day, I'll finally publish that book I've been working on. Anyhow, I visited several lovely resting places in Edinburgh and Dublin. Some of the tombstones were literal works of art, as well as the gardens which surrounded them. I walked and walked and walked. Worth every ounce of discomfort that my body experienced to be in the presence of these places, and I'll cherish the pictures that I took...with my camera, as well as with my mind. So, even at my age, I find myself still learning and growing. I think the day we stop that process is the day we truly die, even if our bodies are still alive. At least growing pains mean I'm still growing, and my physical pain serves to remind me that I'm still alive to feel that pain.






















As for new year resolutions, well, I hate that crap. More often than not, they  fade away with the presence of February. I want to make lasting promises to myself that I have a chance of actually keeping. Like, I promise to myself in this next year to be more open to all the things I might be unknowingly closing myself off from. For instance, if I hadn't pushed myself to travel, I would have lost out on so many experiences, like the conversation I had with the wonderful lady at the antique store who, after I told her of my books and my main character, Rose, offered a gift of this vintage bracelet.




And I wouldn't have experienced this flurry of feathered friends in St. Stephen's Green, when a local gentleman introduced me to the park's most welcoming residents.

By the way, thank you, John, for all your Irish hospitality. Our visit was so much more special because of the generous amount of time you spent showing us John Foyle's Dublin...










There will always be loss and heartache, but there will also always be good to look forward to. Enjoy it, and cling to it when it comes to you. I wish for myself to open up my heart and soul more so I can experience more good times, even when I doubt myself, and so I can share more words more frequently, even when life gets in the way. And I wish for you all in the coming year whatever good things you hope for and need in your lives. As always, peace and love to you all...

And Then There's This...

Life is a struggle. For all of us. Every single day.

I almost posted to Facebook yesterday that it was one year to the date that I was diagnosed with Mixed Connective Tissue Disorder (MCTD), which is something that I struggle with every day.. But the more I thought about it, the more I decided not to talk about it...not on that one year mark. I'll explain why in a moment.

It's difficult for someone like me who happens to remember the dates of just about everything that ever happened in my past. Drives my husband Joel crazy. He knows all the "anniversaries" of past events that I remember and, bless him, he keeps them in a Google calendar so he can always empathize, sympathize, or celebrate each of them with me since he could never remember them all on his own. I don't live in the past, but where I've been and all I've been through help define who I am now. Some memories are wonderful, some...not so much. Sometimes it's simply a measure of how far I've come or that I've finally let go of something that has been holding me back. Remembering where you've been is important in realizing where you are now, and also looking forward to where you're going.

I was devastated last summer when I went to my doctor, thinking my lack of energy and constant achy muscles could be addressed with some thyroid meds and a frank reminder of my age (I have one of those milestone birthdays coming up in a few days). Instead, my sweet doctor (and despite the fact that I absolutely hate going to the doctor...any doctor) went through the results of my blood work with me one page at a time. "Your cholesterol is excellent, you have no signs of heart disease, liver and kidneys look good, your glucose is perfect. These pages of your blood work are worthy of a picture frame."

So I sat there thinking, "then why do I feel so horrible all the time?" I had begun to think it was all in my imagination. Or that maybe everyone else was just growing older more gracefully than I was.

And then she came to the very last page. I should have known something was up when they had taken so many vials of blood, but I trust my physician and her acute sense of people's problems, not to mention her awesome women's intuition, so I was sure she had my best interests at heart. And she did, I just didn't like the results.

"And then there's this."

She handed me the last page which bore the results of a test I was certain no doctor had ever ran on me. It was an Antinuclear Antibody (ANA) test. And it was positive. When you have an autoimmune disorder, your immune system  mistakes healthy cells for intruders and attacks them. I blanked out for a moment because I'm a bit prone to panic. That's one of the reasons I love Joel so much - he knows that, and always offers to go to the doctor with me if I want him to. I remember hearing words, but I mentally sort of shut down for a minute while she continued to talk. When I came back around, I still saw her there in front of me, telling me that it would be okay. It didn't really hit me until I got home and read more about MCTD just what she had said. Of all the years I had suspected problems beyond what any doctor wanted to help me find out about myself, she was finally the one who rescued me. No, I didn't like what she said, but she did rescue me because she finally gave me an answer. An answer to all my years of questions about so many physical problems I'd had. And it doesn't sound like a big deal, but when you have doctors turn you away and tell you that "you're overreacting" or "there's nothing wrong with you" it tends to break you down over time.

So I did exactly what Joel often tells me not to do...I started researching on the internet. The web is a wonderful thing...at times. But Joel will be the first to tell you that it isn't always the best place to go. And he has a Ph.D. in computer science. I read and read and read, but at least I had an answer this time. It wasn't like I was trying to diagnose myself like I'd been trying to do for years because no doctor had been able to. I had an explanation, and honestly, it was rather liberating. After years of wondering, I could finally address it head on. I could learn what to do and what not to do. I could learn which foods were good for me and which foods aggravated my condition. I didn't have to worry and wonder anymore, just learn. Many people aren't familiar with MCTD, so if you aren't bored out of your mind by now, I'll tell you a little about it.

It's actually more of an overlap disease because it contains signs and symptoms of a combination of disorders — mainly lupus, scleroderma and polymyositis. The symptoms of the separate diseases usually happen over several years' time and don't appear all at once, often making diagnosis complicated  In later stages, the lungs, heart and kidneys  may be affected or possibly fail, so my doctor keeps constant watch on my organs. There is fatigue, fever, Raynaud's phenomenon where fingers feel cold or numb, swollen hands, and, the worst for me, muscle and joint pain. There is no known risk factor, no known cause, and unfortunately, no cure. But, now that we know, we can keep a watch on my organs and manage any other medications that can help keep me healthy. Many people with MCTD often suffer from depression because of their aches and pains and inability to do what they want and need to do. And that's why I chose not to mention all this yesterday.

When the news of Robin Williams' death came out, so many people thought they had all the answers. Some even condemned him for taking his own life. The truth is, unless you've ever experienced those feelings, you have no idea what it's like. I've never wanted to take my own life, but I've always been an anxious sort of person, and panicky, and sometimes easily depressed. And it is easy to be down about a condition like this, but I realized yesterday that I'm very fortunate. I have a doctor who took all my questions and finally, FINALLY, turned them into answers. And she makes sure that I have whatever I need to live a healthy life to the best of my ability without suffering more than necessary. MCTD is sometimes referred to as one of the "invisible diseases." People who have it don't look like they're sick, so I might look okay on the outside, and really feel sore and miserable inside. But I have a physician and a family that watch out for me, and help care for me. I have help for a disease that does depress me, but I'm living a good life. I'm finally living out my dream of writing, and other than days when my fingers are too tired to keep up with the ideas rapidly running through my head, I can type without much pain.

 So rather than look at yesterday as the big one year mark since my diagnosis and feel burdened, I chose to be happy. Thankfully, deep down, I am a naturally happen person, despite all I've been through and all that I am still going through. At least now I have answers. I have a wonderful doctor. I have a loving family, gracious and caring friends, and readers who enjoy my work. It's not always easy to see things that way, but when you notice someone else who could no longer deal with the sadness that life often brings, it makes you appreciate all the good that we often miss. I couldn't make it if it weren't for all the love I feel from those around me.

Life is a struggle. For all of us. Every single day. Take the time to give a hug, or a compliment, or a kind word, or even a pat on the back to someone near you. We all need it, we all want it. And you never know when that kindness might just be the thing that keeps someone from doing the unthinkable.

The Papers of My Past

I admit it...I suck at blogging. I don't mean to, and perhaps years ago...before I rediscovered the joy of writing and finally publishing...I might have rambled on about most anything on a blog. Now that I'm actually writing the way I always wanted to and sharing it with others, I suppose I've reserved my words more carefully. If I can come up with precious words to share, I want to make them part of my books.

But today, I went through many years of papers and journals that I've been keeping since I was a young girl, and I simply had to share a few thoughts. Those papers and journals mean the world to me, and I actually panicked at first because I couldn't remember where I placed them after looking at them last. It would be like losing part of my soul to lose those books of my most personal thoughts and secrets.

I've been telling people since publishing my first book less than a year ago that I'd been writing since I was 9. We remember certain things like that, and we repeat them over and over, but I honestly had forgotten just what I did that started it all at the age of 9. Today while thumbing through these priceless papers of my past, I found the answer.

It was hidden inside a homework assignment I'd saved from high school, dated September 12, 1980 and only labeled "2nd period." The paper was entitled, "Journalism and Me" and described why I loved writing, how I came to love it, and what my plans were to use it in the future. I tell my own story of how I began to write...and thank goodness, because the actual way it happened was something I'd completely forgotten. After re-reading it today, I'll never allow myself to forget it again. This is an excerpt from my paper about how I began writing:

"A nine year-old girl sits in her school desk on a Monday morning and is told by her teacher to begin working on a penmanship assignment. A minimum of 32 words were required to be written, either copied from a textbook or made into the form of a poem by the student. The youngster had become irritated with simply copying words from a book, she so began writing her own choice of words and formed them into poetry. She liked the way her selection of words sounded together, and from then on, she wrote a poem every day of the week for her writing assignment. Her teacher became very complimentary of her work and persuaded her to enter her writing in an upcoming literary contest that was to be sponsored by the school. The young girl did, and won top honors in her division. This made her very proud, and also made her decide to carry out this new-found talent to its fullest extent. This little girl was me."

Of course now that I read that, the memories of how it all happened flood back. Even then, I was bored with standard assignments and copying words just for the exercise of improving my penmanship. And so my love of writing and poetry and connecting words together was born. It never left me, no matter what I did. I have thousands of pieces of paper where I've written about a special day, a person I randomly met, a street I passed by, or a date I went on. Almost every little thing I did became something to write about. And then, the unthinkable happened...I stopped writing altogether.

It seemed normal at first. I wondered if perhaps if it might have just been a way to express thoughts and hopes and dreams, and that it was time to put all that aside and be an adult. I tried to write again over the years, but the words were so forced and felt so unnatural that I felt defeated each time I made an attempt. My life seemed to have moved on in another direction and I believed that my writing would forever be something in my past.

In those numerous scraps of saved papers and journal pages, I found countless entries that began this way:

"I wish I'd never stopped writing."
"My pen trembles now as it touches the paper because I can't think of anything to say."
"I vow to start writing again."

And so those and many others came and went, and yet all along, the words were still building up inside me. They were dying to come out, and I couldn't seem to figure out how to make that happen. I'd never shown my work to anyone really, other than what I turned in for assignments or wrote for student newspapers. Once or twice I gave a poem to someone as a gift, but it was with the utmost promise that it was only for their eyes. For the most part, stacks of writing that no one had ever seen turned more and more yellow day by day. Sadly, I realized that, in my late forties, I had given up on the very thing I thought I would build my life upon.

Then one day in 2012, after the last of my four children had graduated from high school and begun college, after my husband's career was stable and his PhD was completed, I was moved to write a paragraph. I studied that paragraph for almost two months, and recited it to myself over and over. It became my inspiration for my first published novel, and it was from that paragraph that Rose was born. That paragraph is buried deep within the book now, not as the beginning of a chapter or anything that might stand out to anyone else, but yet a paragraph that changed my life. A paragraph that made me feel it was finally time to share...finally time to do what I always meant to do, just like I did when I was 9. Put together a selection of words in a form that I thought sounded good together. If I could do it at 9, I could still do it then at almost 49.

So after two published books now, I am still amazed at how long I waited. Some days I lament all the lost years, all the chances I could have taken, but that would only waste more time. Yes, I reserve my words carefully now, but after looking back at the papers of my past, I could only hope that maybe someone would understand my message now. That dream you had or still have, that thing you meant to do...whatever it is...do it! It's not too late. I waited almost 40 years from first discovering my love for writing to take a chance on my dream.

Grateful for each saved piece of paper from my past that never let me forget what I promised myself I would do one day. And sweet is the knowledge that I saw it to fruition.

Dream on, friends...dream on.

Sneak Peek from the Sequel!!

I'm not sure what I ever imagined myself doing after I published my first novel back in March, but I'm pretty sure writing a sequel so soon afterward was not it. And yet, that's exactly what I've been doing. I have so enjoyed every message I've received from every single reader of Rose, On Her Own. I could have only dreamed of having people read and enjoy anything I'd ever written this much.

I'm quite certain that Rose will become a trilogy now, if not a series. It's all still in very rough form at the moment, but for anyone who might care...I thought I'd offer a little peek into the sequel Rose, On Her Way. It begins mid-conversation with Rose and Jeannie:

"You know, Frank even offered to shoot Trevor's wedding alone, Jeannie. And swore he would never tell you. But I love my job, and as torn as my heart was that day, I knew I had to go on. My camera is always my first love. I was true to that, and true to myself.”

“You know, Rose, even if you had not been able to attend the ceremony that night, and even if I had found out, I would have understood. You know that.”

“I know, Jeannie. I know. But I held myself to a higher standard. My career had to come first. I couldn't let those feelings get in the way.”

“My dear Rose. Those weren't merely feelings. Those where emotions that defined your life at that moment in time. And take this however you choose, but I've seen the pictures from that night and they were nothing short of remarkable. I don’t know how you did it, but you did. If you remember, I told you when I gave you the assignment that the last wedding would be your best work, and I was right. And now, knowing how much you had been through that day, it’s a true credit to your talent that you were still able to produce such beautiful photographs. And let me add this much…I know I’m older than you, and I’m from a big city, but even a fool could see there’s something special about Trevor. I can’t put my finger on it, but he’s unique. A small town guy for sure…every small town has one that stands out. But he’s wonderful on the eyes, and adorable. I understand you more than you know, Rose. And I understand why you fell.”

Rose knew every word Jeannie spoke was true. Being reminded of how easy on the eyes Trevor was definitely a fact no one needed to remind her of. And even though Rose was apprehensive to open up to Jeannie, again, she knew it was for the best. Jeannie understood so much about her. Even things Frank couldn't understand. They had a wonderful bond and Rose always felt as though life made so much more sense after Rose a discussion with her. Rose had confessed some extremely personal situations to her in the past few months, and knowing she had Jeannie’s support was something she counted on. She felt it a wonderful thing to have this woman as her confidant.

“I appreciate that, Jeannie. He really is a special person. I’ll never really know what came over me that made me do the things I did with him, but I can’t really say I regret it. Does that make me terrible?”

“Not at all, Rose. Not at all. Let me ask you one thing. Did you get anything positive from the experience? I’m assuming you did, otherwise you would regret it. I've told you before, I've had affairs. Sometimes they end well, and sometimes they don’t. But if you’re lucky, you learn something from it all. You seem to have emerged from this different somehow. Like you've been refined…through the fire and all that. I like it, Rose. You may feel guilty or remorseful, but I like what I see in you since all these events transpired.”

“You see all that in me, Jeannie?”

“Yes, Rose. I do. But I have to be honest with you. Though I see lessons learned and decisions made, I also still see some confusion in your eyes. I know you love Frank, but you haven’t yet convinced me that you have Trevor completely behind you. Am I right? Just tell me if I’m not and I won’t ever bring it up again.”

Rose stared down at the table again. There was no point in lying to this perfectly wonderful friend. And even if she had, Jeannie would have known the difference. 

TO BE CONTINUED... :)  I hope to publish the sequel by late summer 2013

Feel free to visit my  new website (still in the developmental stages) at www.michelependleton.com

The book Rose, On Her Own is available at amazon.com in print and for the Kindle:
http://www.amazon.com/Rose-Her-Own-Michele-Pendleton/product-reviews/1482569167/

Also for the Nook:
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/rose-on-her-own-michele-pendleton/1114922420?ean=2940016190150&itm=1&usri=2940016190150

For the Love of Writing

That's why I did it. That's why I self-published my book. Because I love to write. It's that simple.

Did I ever think I'd make a million dollars at it? No. Never. I've never cared about money except to have enough to pay bills and take care of my family. Even if I was a millionaire I'd still shop at thrift stores. Money is best spent on family and friends and out of love.

Did I care? Not in the slightest. This isn't about money for me. I've written for myself for free for years. I wrote for the college newspaper for free, and I loved every second of it. I've always made sacrifices for my love of writing. Not because I had to, but because I wanted to.

Did I think everyone would enjoy it? Not at all. No more than I think every person enjoys the same food or clothing or car or anything else in life where we all have different personalities that cause us to make different and unique choices.

Do I think it's literary genius? No, but I do think it's well-written, well-edited, and what my heart wanted to say. If people like it, then fine. If not, then that's fine, too. But I take my writing seriously, and I always have. It's sacred to me.

Did I think I might offend some people?  Well, yes. But it wasn't intentional, because I merely wrote my heart. I just have a very diverse group of friends who range from very conservative to very liberal, and I love them all. I never once thought my book was a global target that would please or impress everyone. Such an achievement isn't even possible.

Why did I do it then? For the love of writing. Seriously. And because deep down, I just wanted to share my words and have even one person say they were moved by it. If I had only sold one book and someone loved it, that would have been complete validation for me. But I have sold more than one, and I do believe most people have enjoyed it. Some have been more moved by it than others, I'm certain. But I'm literally thrilled that anyone related to it and was even momentarily engaged by it.

No, I didn't get picked up by a famous publishing house with an advance and a contract. But I'm quite easily intimidated. And admittedly, I don't deal with rejection well. I never even sent the manuscript off to anyone. I self-published because I just march to the beat of my own drum. I always have. I don't read instructions, I put something together based on the picture on the box. I don't follow recipes, I just add ingredients and mix and experiment. The same went for publishing. I just did it my way.

Am I proud of myself? Well, yes. And I'm one of the most humble and easily embarrassed people you can ever meet. But I am proud of myself. Not for publishing, not for selling more than one book, not for seeing my name in print or my words put between a book cover. I'm proud of myself for getting the guts to finally do something I didn't think I would ever do. I was always too shy to put my work out there. But you never know until you try. My brother died at 32 without living out all his dreams. I did it for me and for him because he never can now.

Short and sweet...I have too many words in my heart for just one person, and I've kept them inside for far too long. And that's why I did this. For the love of writing.

http://www.amazon.com/Rose-Her-Own-Michele-Pendleton/dp/1482569167

From Rose and the color pink, to Leanna and the color purple...

Since wrapping up my book on Rose and finally publishing this week, I've wondered what to focus on next. I could take a break from writing, but I'd rather not. I ventured into the world of publishing later than I meant to, and I want to write as much as I can while I still have the chance.

Rose taught me many things...about life, about myself, about others. She helped me look at life and people differently. And so, while I am finished with her story (for now, at least) she will continue to be a part of me in my next venture. My main character's name for the next book is Leanna. The title of the book, unless I ultimately feel compelled to change it, will be The Silver Platter. And an important element of the story is a purple ribbon...I promise it will make more sense later.

Leanna works in an antique store, assisting it's elderly owner with many errands and responsibilities he can no longer take care of himself. As I mentioned in my previous blog, I started this story in 1989 and worked on it again in 2010. And honestly, I'm not sure which one is more difficult...starting a story from scratch, or attempting to complete and fill in gaps on a story that's 3/4 done. Leanna is waiting on me though, so I will tackle this with excitement.

The last time I worked on this story, I made a point of surrounding myself with antiques in order to really get into the feel of the plot. I would go to antique stores and just walk around for hours. It's something I love anyhow, truth be told, but it certainly helped me in my writing. I look forward to doing that once again.

Is Leanna a similar character to Rose? Well, I write from the heart, and a little bit of me goes into every one of my main characters. So there may be some resemblance between the two, but Leanna is unmistakably different in many ways.

And sidetracking me from Leanna is the cemetery book which still yearns for my attention to its completion, as well as a part II to Leanna's story which is at least 1/2 written, and a working title with a few thousand words for Rose part II. I find myself moving back and forth...I do that a lot. I'm desperately trying to do one thing at a time though. Each project is like a child, all begging for me to look at them and listen to them. And since I raised four kids, maybe that's why I can move back and forth between each project without a lot of difficulty.  Maybe waiting until I was older to finally publish gave me a chance for life lessons that make it all the sweeter now.

And now, I must go...for Leanna is calling my name...

What Dreams Did Come...

It was difficult to sleep last night. No one wants to say goodnight to a day where they saw a dream come true. You see, yesterday, I saw a dream materialize that I'd had since childhood. I saw my the first tangible copy of my first novel. After far too long of waiting and wondering, postponing and pushing it all to the side, I finally decided to publish. Was it easy? Not at all. Will I do it again? Absolutely.

I have to do it. It's everything I am and everything I've ever wanted to be. Even when I didn't understand why I had to write, I did. And I've saved almost every scrap of notebook paper, stationery, journal, and post it note that I've ever written a poem or started a short story on. From the time I was around nine years old. I have stacks and stacks.

So why did it take me so long to make my dreams come true? Well, there's not any one certain reason. Mostly, I suppose I didn't believe in myself. It still shocks me that people would want to read what I write. I've always wanted to share, but after college, I became apprehensive again. I assumed it might be some childhood fantasy that would eventually disappear. But it never did. I moved on with my life, had children, moved to another city and took on a couple more children, and settled into domesticated life. And as much as I love and always have loved my family, there was always a nagging feeling inside of me that I was missing something.

It was finally around four years ago when I told a friend that I wrote, and he asked to see some examples. There might have only been a handful of people that had ever seen my work. I hid it all. And I reluctantly took some examples to him, and to my surprise, he really enjoyed reading them. It made me wonder if I might actually ever find my way back one day...to writing, and maybe...maybe...even sharing it. I wrote a few poems and notes and blogs, but not much else. Until I discovered NaNoWriMo in November 2010.

NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writer's Month. The challenge is to write a minimum of 50,000 words in the form of a novel within the 30 days of November. I didn't think I would make it that first year, but I did. With a story idea I had in 1989. Still sitting in a folder. I had the idea at work one day and wrote it down to save it. So I made my 50,000 word goal that month, saved the document, and went on with my life. Again.

Then came November 2011, and I decided to try again. Although by this time I had a couple of obstacles. I had tried to start writing a journal of visiting different cemeteries. Almost as soon as I started that in July 2011, I collapsed one day in the middle of Huntsville's most beautiful cemetery, Maple Hill. I was told to walk with a cane until my knee replacement a few months later. I was a bit depressed, and felt uninspired to participate in NaNoWriMo that year, but still made my goal of 50,000 words. And when I was done, I saved the document, and went on with my life. Again.

The year 2012 brought many events and activities. Some I expected, some I didn't. I had a knee replacement in March. My youngest of four children graduated high school in May. And I traveled to as many cemeteries as I could in different states to continue my dream of publishing my cemetery book. My knee was, and still is, a challenge to deal with. But I am stubborn. So I kept going. Then it was sometime around late August when something changed.

I had an idea. I wrote down a few words and tucked them away safely. And in those words lived a young woman who I decided to name Rose. I thought of what a book cover would look like, and what Rose might actually look like, and all the things she might encounter. And on November 1, 2012, I began to write. But this NaNoWriMo was different. The words begin to flow, and unlike the past two years where it took me the entire month to meet my word goal, I met it just over halfway into November. And rather than saving the document and moving on with my life, again, I kept writing. And I kept writing. And then, there was Rose, in her entirety. I finished writing the story just before the end of the year. And 2013 brought the challenge of editing it to publish.

There was something, thank goodness, about Rose that made me realize it was time. Time to stop waiting. Time to share the words. Time to make my dreams come true. So many friends and family have died without realizing their own dreams. I just wanted to fight to see if it could happen to me before my time here is up. And so, Rose was born.

So, what's next? Well, there's all those stacks of papers I've been saving for years. They hold ideas I've had and secrets I've forgotten, and they all have the possibilities of yielding characters for future works. And that novel idea from 1989 that I used for NaNoWriMo 2010? Well, I'm editing it now and I hope to publish it in a few months. I may have hidden all those stacks of papers away for too long, but at least I didn't lose them or throw them away. They've always been, and will always remain, some of my most valuable possessions.

Rose will always be special to me though, because she changed me. She gave me courage, and a voice, so I gave her wings. Whatever else I write, I will always owe to Rose. On her own.