I am NOT a Blogger!

Here it goes.  Media is rushing past me and its time for me to hop onboard.  I feel like I'm on the back of a Harley blasting down the road at 60 mph.  Hair flying wildly.  White knuckles.  Eyes closed.

My blogging is similiar to the start of my writing.  I ventured into creating my own stories with the realistic 'note-to-self' that I wasn't a REAL author.  I was just a mother hoping to jot down an amusing story for her children to read and pass down over the years to come.  But things changed when I realized that I loved it.  Those late nights when I was seeking quiet and solitude became the highlight of my day.  The only sore spot was that I couldn't let anyone know that I was writing.  What would they think?  So, I minimized the computer screen everytime someone (dog included) walked past me.  My poor husband was convinced that I had joined an online chat room and was relieved when I confessed that I had been writing children's novels.

If I look far enough back to the age of big hair and shoulder pads, I realize that I have always loved writing.  It was in a bargain bin at the local mall that I found a book by Emily Dickinson.  I loved the mental pictures she painted with her words.  I wanted to do that, but I was no writer.  Sigh.

Later, I was surprised to learn that Miss Dickinson had stashed her stories in an old trunk.  With age usually comes a little wisdom.  I didn't want my stories to end up hidden away.  I wanted someone to read them.  Blessed with a group of encouraging friends, I've been pushed out into the world.  Ready or not.

I even queried an agent with a quote.  "Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul."  Rather dramatic but heart felt at the time.

With a stack of novels for children, I continue forward.  Unlike Emily, they won't be left in the memory of my computer but rather, a child's mind.

Welcome to the New Emily.