At a very young age, probably only six or seven, I wrote a story – or at least that’s what my mother tells me. I remember nothing of it, but for some reason I sent this story to my aunt who promptly told my mother that I was going to write a book someday. Well, that someday came. Thirty years later, but it came.
I have been writing dialogue in my head for so long that there were moments when I actually questioned my sanity, thinking that possibly – just possibly – I wasn’t creating dialogue but hearing voices. I have dreams about shoes and go out in search of them (sometimes I even find them). I buy the perfect vintage hair clip then spend weeks looking for the perfect outfit to complement it. I run scenes in my mind sometimes until the wee hours of the morning, sometimes making myself laugh. Sometimes making myself cry. So I admit, I’m a little crazy.
I’ve also been teaching high school English for sixteen years, married for twelve, a mother for seven. So whatever crazy I’d been nursing for the first half of my life has only intensified during the second half, but I can’t complain. It’s a good kind of crazy.
We live in a beautiful small town in south Alabama near the coast. Friday nights in the fall, the main street in town is lined with flags supporting the local high school football team. Downtown on summer nights, the park is transformed to an outdoor movie theater. We have more parades than we do holidays. It’s an idyllic setting for a semi-crazy life, and I wouldn’t change a thing.