How I Became a Writer (Or Maybe… How Writing Found Me)

Looking back, I suppose I should have known I was destined to become a storyteller.

I was the oldest of three kids and somehow became the designated babysitter for what felt like every cousin in the family. Keeping a house full of kids entertained takes creativity, and I loved making up stories. We invented adventures, imaginary worlds, and games that probably made perfect sense to us and absolutely none to the adults listening in.

Stories were simply part of who I was.

Somewhere along the way, though, practicality took over.

Growing up in a small rural Wyoming town, I wasn’t thinking about becoming a bestselling novelist. I was thinking about finding a stable career that would pay the bills.

So I gravitated toward practical subjects in school. Things that would help me build a career. Things that seemed responsible.

Writing easily moved to the back burner.

But it never disappeared.

Years later, after I was married and my son was born, life settled into a different rhythm.

Like many new parents, I spent countless hours in the middle of the night rocking a baby who had absolutely no interest in sleeping.

Fortunately, I had company. Paperback romances.

I’d sit in the rocking chair with a baby in one arm and a book in the other, disappearing into small towns, happy endings, and characters who always found their way through life’s challenges.

Eventually I hit a problem.

I kept running out of books.

One night I remember thinking, I could probably write one of these.

It wasn’t arrogance. It was curiosity.

So I sat down at our family computer. The computer desk wasn’t in a beautiful office with custom bookshelves or inspirational artwork. It sat in our formal dining room, right next to the clothes dryer. Apparently, every room in our house had multiple jobs. 😊

Looking back, that space feels like the perfect metaphor for that season of life. Everything was multitasking. The dining room was also an office. The laundry room was practically part of the dining room. I was a wife, a mom, and someone trying to figure out whether this writing dream was actually possible.

Somehow, despite all of that, I wrote my very first novel in less than six weeks.

I had no idea what I was doing. I didn’t know publishing. I didn’t know the industry. I didn’t know story structure. I just knew I loved telling stories.

Then something happened that changed everything. Or at least it should have.

During a trip to the mall in the “big city,” about 50 miles away and with fewer than 30,000 people, I met an actual published author.

Until then, authors had seemed almost mythical to me. They were people whose names appeared on book covers. Glamorous, like the Joan Collins you see on TV. Not people you casually met while shopping.

But this author was kind enough to answer my questions, share her publishing experience, and even give me the name of her literary agent. I went home and immediately sent my manuscript.

To my complete surprise, I signed with an agent on my very first attempt.

Looking back now, I realize how incredibly rare that is.

At the time?

I had absolutely no idea.

I was just a small-town girl from Wyoming who suddenly found herself talking with a New York literary agent.

Then reality hit. The revisions came. The feedback came. The business side of publishing came.

Instead of understanding that editorial criticism is simply part of the publishing process, I took it personally. I assumed they didn’t really like me or my writing.

So I did something I still shake my head about. I let the contract expire.

If I could go back and talk to that younger version of myself, I’d probably hug her first. Then I’d explain that publishing isn’t personal. Editors edit. Agents push. Books get rewritten. None of that means you’re failing. It means you’re becoming a better writer.

But we don’t get to rewrite our own past. We only get to learn from it. Life moved on. Careers changed. States changed. Life situations changed.

Eventually I found myself living in Georgia, where I discovered the Georgia Romance Writers chapter. That chapter changed my writing life in ways I could never have imagined.

For the first time, I found people who understood this strange dream of creating stories out of thin air. People who celebrated each other’s successes. People who understood rejection because they’d lived it too. People who became lifelong friends.

Every writer deserves to find a community like that. I certainly did.

Like many writing stories, though, this isn’t the part where I tell you I became an overnight success. Because I didn’t. Life kept happening. My career continued to grow. Opportunities led me from Georgia to Washington, D.C., where today I work in a career I’m incredibly proud of.

Writing never completely disappeared, but for many years it had to share space with everything else that life demanded. Marriage. Family. Career. Moving. Responsibilities.

If you’ve ever wondered whether you’re “too late” to chase a dream, let me tell you something. Dreams are remarkably patient. Mine waited decades.

Now, as retirement from the day job slowly appears on the horizon, I’ve made a conscious decision to stop treating writing like something I’ll do “someday.”

This is someday.

These days I’m dusting off manuscripts I wrote years ago, giving them stronger voices, richer characters, and the benefit of everything I’ve learned over the past twenty-seven years.

I’m also creating entirely new stories under both of my pen names, exploring new worlds, new characters, and new adventures.

Oddly enough, I’m having more fun writing now than I ever did when I first started. Maybe that’s because I no longer feel like I have something to prove. I’m simply telling the stories I want to tell.

And I think readers can feel that.

So if you’re reading this as a writer who’s wondering whether you should finally start…

Start.

If you’ve written one chapter…

Keep going.

If you’ve been told your genre isn’t serious enough…

Ignore the naysayers.

The world needs mysteries. It needs fantasy. It needs thrillers. It needs literary fiction.

And yes… It absolutely needs romance.

Because hope is never out of season.

As for me?

I’m incredibly grateful that one exhausted young mom, rocking her baby with a paperback romance in her hand, decided she might just be able to write one herself.

She had no idea where that decision would lead.

Neither do you.

Maybe that’s the best part of every writing story.

The next chapter hasn’t been written yet.