One day, the idea of writing my own story, with my own characters, ambushed me while I was running in the foothills near my house. A story about a young hero rising above a brutal past with the help of others along the way, with whiffs of fantasy and history and philosophy and even a love story. Maybe something with...with...with angels.
Man, I really should have run faster.
For I already had a career. I taught, and still teach, social studies at a junior high school, and during the summers, my husband and I have been building a modest cabin in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. A full life. A happy life. A life with some bloody down time!
But the idea of writing my own story would not die. I kept thinking about writing a book. Which is all good and well, except for one problem.
I had never written anything like a book.
I had never written a short story.
I had never written creative fiction.
I had never written a song or an epitaph or a poem.
Nothing. Nada. Zippo.
I had no idea what I was doing.