There was a period in my life when I was younger that I spent too much time spinning tales in my head instead of taking care of the task at hand. Whatever that chore was–washing dishes, doing homework, cleaning out the garage–my heart was never truly in it. Later, the same was true when I grew up and got a job, spending hours sitting behind a desk. It just wasn’t me. I spent years toiling away at writing stories on a typewriter I’d received as a high school graduation present.
You name it–romance, mystery, fantasy–I tried my hand writing it. Some ideas reached fruition, that means I was able to write a “The End” at, well, the end. Others never made it that far. But the ideas kept coming. I have literally dozens of story plots and premises because I’ve always been able to spin a good yarn. At times, my mother tended to call it lying, which it was. 🙂 Especially when I was in trouble, missing curfew, not doing exactly what she wanted me to do, etc. But now, the fact is I enjoy what I do. Writing. spinning out a tale is as much for me as it is for the people who read my books. It’s therapy. It’s an escape. It’s entertaining. It’s me.