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I have always wanted to be a writer. Actually, I have always wanted to be a storyteller, having fallen in love with the idea that a cleverly crafted plot can transport a person to a different time and place, fueled only by the limits of imagination. Words have always fascinated me with their incredible power to inspire, to illustrate, to affect emotion and to stimulate thought. I have been captivated by a perfectly penned phrase ever since my momma read to me from Grimm’s Fairy Tales as a child. And so, I became a teacher, specializing in literature and communication. In my heyday, I could autopsy Shakespeare (or Steinbeck) with the best of them, weaving tales about fictional characters, much to the delight (and dismay) of my long -suffering students.
And then I retired. Without the burdens and responsibilities of paper grading and lesson planning, I had the time to decide what I wanted to do with my big-girl life. I had spent years postponing putting pen to paper. My days were busy, and I had a multitude of excuses, colorfully wrapped in delays and postponements. until one day I realized that the differencee between a dream and goal is a timeline, sprinkled with a bit of motivation. Could I do it, I wondered? Could I write a book or were my creative fantasies simply illusions, something to bravely attempt in the land of someday? The only way to find out was to try. And so I did. Thankfully, the muse showed up to guide me on my journey. Her name is Gertrude, which is not very Greek. I know. She likes wine and chocolate. I keep her well-supplied.
This is my second chapter. Please join me.