I’ve realized that I was born to be a writer—I practically had no choice in the matter. I wonder how many people feel that way.

A sibling-free childhood growing up in a valley dominated by grapevines and oaks and overrun by characters almost begging to be written about. Combine this with countless solitary stretches spent reading books in trees, on couches, in self-constructed forts, and among tall swaying alfalfa grass.

After all, what was I to do with a mother who was a spiritual healer and a father who was both an artist and prolific writer? Attentive, interesting extended family and friends sent me postcards from foreign locales. I was exposed to arts and culture and all strata of privilege and lack. There was also a healthy sprinkling of danger and addiction tossed over the heap of my days.

And still, it took me forty-nine years to accept my fate and get down to my own writing. 

For a long time, instead of my own singular words, I wrote for others, about others, and most of all because of others. Letters and missives, articles and marketing copy, white papers, content writing, and always, always…media alerts and press releases. Hours of collaboration on the manuscripts of friends, their resume cover letters, their scribes to agents, even lovers. I shared structural and editorial advice until I couldn’t see straight. 

My years in the publishing industry sucked me dry of my own drive to write, and by the time I finally landed to work in the world of self-publishing (don’t get me started…although the latest hybrid model is interesting), I could take no more.

And still, it took me forty-nine years to accept my fate and get down to my own writing.

I climbed the tree of my life, branching in and out of joy and tragedy, hope and despair, purpose and sloth. Then, at age forty-nine, exhausted by circumstance and the muting of my own voice, I found myself at the literal deathbed of my (writer) father. I pledged to him, and myself to “write, really write.” 

The unlocking was immediate, and the words and stories have been pouring forth ever since. If you’re interested in how I moved beyond writing because of others and began writing for me, and for the world, stay tuned. 

After forty-nine years, I’m ready to cover a lot of ground.