Not Exactly a Writer’s Biography

When I decided to write—not long after I was born—I wanted to take myself out of my mundane existence into adventure. I wasn’t allowed to read anything not in the children’s section of the library where monsters and evil wriggled through the fairy tales. I figured I could do better.

We lived just beyond the edge of the city limits of a town that couldn’t yet be called a city in the north of Michigan. Our yard that had once been swamp was filled with beautiful soft sand from the Great Lakes—sand that could be fashioned into forts and ranches and landing pads for anyone leaping off the swings. When I jumped into the chilled waters of Lake Huron from our little cabin cruiser as a scout for the rest of the family, I was certain I was preparing for the life of daring for which I was destined. My blue two-wheeler bicycle was my elephant and my swing was a palomino mare. I imagined being a writer was stimulating and crackling with variety as you traveled from venue to venue in different cultures, meeting people, talking about ideas, and staying in hotels. Unless I would be summoned to be an actor instead, I was quite certain I would make a splendid writer. My girlfriends, who were also my only readers, agreed, but my family moved away from them.

I scribbled my first novelettes in bold green ink on narrow-lined paper. They represented every genre from horror to Biblical epics, although I liked reading and writing gothic novels best. Nancy Drew seemed dreary by comparison. My early teachers encouraged me. Then a college creative writing instructor told me my writing lacked sophistication. Sophistication? I deflated. How does a sheltered person of 17 years write sophistication? I felt defeated and stopped writing so much. As with the boy who told me he would’ve asked me to prom but I was too pure, my problem seemed to be me. What could I do about that?

Writing became a hobby as I typed an historical novel and then screenplays on my clunky computer that demanded I use function keys. The responses I received from agents underscored my belief that although I was talented, I didn’t fit in. Meanwhile, life tied me to obligations, academics, and writing assignments that weren’t especially imaginative. I continued my attempts at creativity at the request of a telephone friend who was a Hollywood producer, but I didn’t expect my work to pay off. Margaret Atwood may have begun in the woods, but she emerged. I didn’t. Although I realized I wasn’t a literary genius, I felt repulsed by cold-hearted refusals: “Not for us” or simply “No” stamped in red. My daily life was complicated and frustrating enough. When I finally returned to writing novels, I published my own books.

I’ve just released my fourth novel RETURN TICKET (available on Amazon). I ask myself if I’m getting better, and I haven’t a clue since each book differs from the last. The bits people find most touching or profound aren’t the bits I would’ve chosen. When a reader calls, weeping, to praise my work, I’m surprised. As a writer, my life is sitting at a laptop for hours, challenging my stamina. I still want terribly to write stories that flow quickly and aren’t patently predictable—including subtle sub-themes that center on possibilities which some people believe wholeheartedly while others scorn as paranormal. I don’t know how to pigeonhole my work. I hope many find my writing entertaining but I don’t write like AI, following popular templates. I write for individuals who want fresh fodder for thought, as I do. If you were meant to be one of my readers, I welcome you and the dog you probably have. If not now, maybe the next novel…? I’m extremely thankful for my readers.

(As for my photo, I thought my novel would emerge while our hummingbirds were still dive-bombing photographers who stood too close.)