the beginning

I’ve always been a writer. From the moment I first wrapped my little fingers around a pencil, I’ve been scribbling thoughts and ideas. But I haven’t always written fiction. In fact, if you told me five years ago that I would write a novel (much less two), I would’ve smiled politely while thinking, Okay, strange person.

I tried writing fiction when I was a kid. It wasn’t very good. I was smart enough to realize that. And when you grow up in a competitive family, you either get good at whatever it is you attempt or you find something you are good at. I didn’t know how to get better. And the one writing workshop I went to actually made it harder for me to write.

I figured it just wasn’t for me. So at the age of 10, I dumped fiction and focused on poetry. Poetry was good to me. People liked my poetry. It came easily, effortlessly.

And then, as with all great personal stories, things happened. (more…)

on inspiration’s way

It whispers and begs and bids me come,
“I will be but a moment,” say I.
But a moment grows from one to two.
“Just a moment, a moment more,” say I.

Louder it grows as it pleads and cries,
But focused on my task am I.
Though I long to lay it aside and come,
I cannot. “Please wait, please wait,” say I.

‘Tis a fickle creature that asks me here,
And yet so devoted am I.
For when it calls, I answer and beg,
“Do not leave. Stay here, stay here,” plead I.

For once it is lost, ’twill not be regained.
Oh what a fool, what a fool, am I.
For I seized it not when it was mine.
“Come back, come back to me,” cry I.

Yet all is quiet and much too still,
For now it has left me alone.
When next it comes I will answer post-haste,
“But for now I wait, I wait,” say I.