I didn’t set out to be a writer. From a young age, my parents instilled in us kids the passion of reading. We had lots of bookshelves full of books. This was back before the digital age. We watched TV too, only in the evening when my parents were home.
I was about seventeen when I started a novel. My sisters and perhaps a friend or two were the only ones who had ever read the few chapters. I didn
Fast forward several years and to spare you the details, I had reached the lowest point in my life after a few miscarriages, continued infertility problems and family issues. Again, I picked up my pen, this time, a digital one, and wrote a novel. It was my dream for the children I envisioned having. An agent accepted it, but there was no taker. The manuscript languished in a box in the basement.
Life got in the way again. We had to move. This was when God took pity on me and gave us children. Four of them! Writing, a failed experiment, sat in the dark spot in the back of my mind.
(Will continue later)