Layered among report cards and papers was a yellow folder. On the cover I'd glued a picture of a hand drawn set of large footprints and a title - The Mystery of the Giant Footprince.
My first attempt at a novel.
It was supposed to have been, The Mystery of the Giant Footprints. I think I was around 8 or 9 when I wrote the beginning of my literary masterpiece. I guess I lost interest, or found it too hard, because it was only a few pages long. And to be honest, I haven't a clue what I wrote. That's how engaging it must have been.
I've always loved to write. I treasured my diary, complete with lock and key. My most secret admissions were tucked safely away from prying eyes. Saucy entries like, "Johnny looked at me today." And, "I hope Jimmy notices me tomorrow in my new skirt."
In high school I took creative writing classes.
In college, my major and double minors took me away from journalism, but I continued to keep a journal. Oh, the angst of those early young adult years.
In the summer, I devoured fiction books, staying up half the night to read, "just one more chapter".
And then life ramped up into full gear - marriage and children.
Except for an occasional season of journaling, my writing took a back seat.
When the life dust settled some, and I had time to think for myself again, I entertained the idea of writing a book.
Then I laughed. Well, that mixed with a tummy flip flop. Too much work. I wouldn't know where to start. Impossible.
God smiled - and planted a story, and characters in my mind one night while I was trying to sleep.
Then He gave me another one, and another.
He reminded me that nothing is impossible with Him in charge.
I'm launching a new page. Story Time