My favorite childhood indulgence was curling into a cozy corner, a book propped in my lap, gorging for hours on black words, stark against the yellowish paper.
Fifteen years ago I scribbled a goal for a college assignment: publish a book. It was a lofty, nebulous idea. A degree, four kids and one fragmented mind later, I found the original recorded ambition and realized if I never try, I'll never know. And so I sat down to a 10-year-old laptop and began writing.
66,000 words and counting, I sit with droopy eyes, writing at midnight and beyond. Finish I will, and if luck finds me, publish, too.
Staying sane in the trenches of mothering four children and completing my first YA novel. And dealing with the constant barrage of characters that pop into my head with terrific stories yet unwritten.