If you go by the definition “one who writes,” I’ve been a writer for a very long time. My original plays have been performed by my childhood friends, by my nieces and nephews, by the local Cub Scouts. I’ve written articles for my high school newspaper, the Parent Council newsletter at my kids' school, the annual report at my workplace. And my silly, sentimental poems have been a regular feature of the Valentine cards I give my husband and kids each year. It all adds up to a lot of writing.
But the day I knew I was an “author” happened in the year 2000. I’d recently started a new job and was still learning the ropes, so when I pulled into the garage that evening I was tired. My youngest son, David, met me at the door, looking as if he were about to burst from excitement. “Mom, you got a phone message! It’s from a lady at a magazine!” My husband saw the incredulous look on my face. “It’s true,” he said. “She wants you to call her back.”
The next day, hands shaking and heart pounding,
I did. Eventually the publisher sent a contract,
and months later, a check. One day, I finally held the magazine in my hands, with my byline inside. But I still count that day, the day of the phone message and the shining light in my son’s eyes, as the one that a lifelong dream had come true—I was a published author.
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