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.