In the beginning there was the word

and the word was inside me, begging to get out.

I remember writing my first song at age 4.  My first book was written when I was 8.  I used to get ridiculously frustrated when well-meaning adults asked me if I wanted to be a writer when I grew up.  I perfected the smiley delivery of this retort: "I'm *already* a writer!"

Strangely enough I wanted to be a doctor.  (That never happened, by the way.)

For the last four years I've been blogging on an adult site.  That has been quite illuminating and really, I can thank my readers for giving me the courage to try a novel again.  I wrote my last novel when I was 15 mostly during geometry class (which explains why I wasn't able to maintain my 4.0).  Whenever I've attempted a novel since then, I've never been able to find my stride.  I wasn't tenacious.  It just wasn't the right story or the right timing.

But this has been inside me, lying dormant for awhile, waiting for the moment of germination. I just didn't know the story until this summer. Now that I've gained momentum, it does feel a little like gestation.  I'm two months in now and well on my way.

I have so much more to say...but I need to get back to it...