I am a novelist, creating stories out of thin air, yet not thin air, since each story is a part of my life, and a part of me has been aching to create since I first learned the wonder of words and what they could achieve on a sheet of paper. After waving my children goodbye, I began to do what I know I was born to do-write, and the ache that burrowed inside me, when I put my domestic life first, left me even as I penned my first line.

Writing is more than an art to me; it is a passion. I live and breathe along with my characters. I am at one with them when I am at my typewriter creating a life that is as real to me as my own. Their thoughts are my thoughts, their feelings are my feelings. I dig deep within myself. I must leave nothing to mere fantasy. They are me and I am them and nothing less will do.

It is as if I have a dual personality. Is it any wonder that so many great writers take to drink! You must have the strength of mind to separate the two lives you live, side by side, day after day while you are creating. You fall in love with your characters, good or evil. You empathize with them. It is the only way to write, the only way to create the reality that is necessary to fill the pages of a book. It is exhausting, fulfilling.

It is gratifying when you feel and see those pages, that began in your mind, spring to life as if by a magic power that goes beyond yourself. And it is exactly what it feels like, that the pages are writing themselves. Since being alone, it is the only way I want to live my life. If that sounds sad, it is far from it. I have lived as a wife and mother for many years. It was satisfying and wonderful and I would not change a single moment of that precious time. Now, I am living as the writer I always craved to be, and I am loving every moment of it, even with all the discouragement that goes with being an aspiring writer, until that day finally comes when you have arrived.