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As a voracious pre-adolescent reader, I took a notion that becoming a novelist would be a most wonderful thing. I knew what enjoyment I got from books, and I wanted to be the person to offer that enjoyment to others. Being something of a self-starter, I got to work at once and completed my first mystery novel at the grand old age of twelve. The completion of the story was praiseworthy, but the quality of the writing was quite the opposite. Not a shred of the manuscript still exists – and the world is grateful.
Nevertheless, the dream persisted, and through numerous detours and roundabouts, trying my hand at everything from poetry to essays to book reviews, I arrived at the turn of the century with a bachelor of arts degree, a few publication credits and a smattering of awards, but no published novel. My four kiddos were growing up and poised to fly the nest – what was a mother to do? That old dream of novel-writing, which had been born and died several grizzly deaths over the years, suddenly resurrected with a power that kept my fingers chained to the keyboard.
A few years later, a publisher took a chance on me with a three-book contract. I’m now working on my twelfth. The same number of years from now I hope to double that number. I’m very grateful for the opportunity to entertain – and hopefully, encourage – readers with tales of adventure seasoned with romance, humour, and faith.