There are a lot of reasons that I’ll never be an internationally famous, best-selling author. One of them is my inability to write a fascinating author’s bio.
I’m a late-bloomer. At fifty-mumble, when my youngest child left home for college, I was left in the position of many moms: Now that the kids are grown, what am I supposed to do? I decided it was time to take some chances. I decided that I was going to try to make a few dreams come true. What the heck, I figured, I can always blame it on temporary insanity brought on by empty-nest syndrome, if it doesn’t work out.
I started college. The goal is to get a degree that will let me work from home most days. That will position me nicely for developing my rural nine acres into a small working farm.
Year One of college is finished with a 3.892 GPA. Not bad for somebody out of school for 20+ years. And those weren’t sissy classes either. I had two semesters of anatomy & physiology, and a semester of pathophysiology & pharmacology. I also took a class in creative writing, which did a lot for my self-confidence.
Writing is the other dream, the one I want more than a farm, the one I’ve been afraid to mention for most of my life. I’ve always been afraid to share my work, in case it was bad. Really bad. Horribly, embarrassingly bad. In the past year I’ve taken the chance, shared some pieces online and in class. With the exception of my poetry project I’ve been happy with the reception I’ve gotten. I’m still on the fence over the whole self-pub/trad pub thing, but I’m not afraid to admit that I’m writing with an eye toward publication now.