Writing I have found, is far more complicated when one endeavors to do it for more than personal pleasure. At the risk of repeating what is in my bio, I have been contemplating beginnings.

In sixth grade, I was introduced to poetry and penned more than my fair share. Throughout middle school, I tried my hand at journalism and even day dreamed of one day being a nationally syndicated columnist. I had no idea what that was exactly, but knew one of my favorite authors and fellow Daytonian, Erma Bombeck had started her career there.  But, poetry still remained my best friend, a poignant way to express the hurt of first love gone astray.

It wasn’t until my sophomore year of high school that I developed a longing to write stories.  At first, they were simple, of course fantasy, and often poorly written.  Like most adolescents, I was idealistic and full of confidence, but when my mother died of cancer last day of my junior year, I looked to medicine and enrolled in the local university pre-med program. I also met my husband that year and earned my Emergency Medical Technician license. For any number of reasons, I gave up on pre-med, got married, worked as a fire fighter/paramedic and when my husband, a military man, went off for a yearlong remote, I picked up pen and paper to fill that void.

Those stories written while he was gone were my yearning for the love and romance that now resided on the other side of the world. They were…adult. Once he returned, I burned them. And as most do, life took hold again and I was too focused on being a wife and soon a mother, to write. Several years ago, with two of my children grown, I found time on my hands and began to write again. My first horrible story was fan fiction. I had no idea at the time it had a name, found that out later. I’d become enchanted with the story of Eragon and when it took my then favorite author, Christopher Paolini three years to produce the next book in the series, I filled in my own version.  Reading it yesterday, the plot is good, the writing, beyond dialogue, horrendous.

After that first attempt, I started writing my own fantasy novels. Izabella, First Glance is the first in my series of a young elf named Lace. With the support of my sister who has loved each novel as I produce them, I have written 7 in the series, plus a novella and a short story. The journey to where I am now has taken a few short years in reality and I am at a point in my writing where I am searching out publication.

Fantasy is my first love, though in the recent year  I’ve written and completed two very different novels that are both more intense and more edgy. I am working with an agent on the one novel and the second is currently out for query with an eBook publisher. My fingers are crossed. I feel it is time for Izabella to find a bigger audience. For this reason, I am editing her once again and come to a point when I question… where does tightening the store end and killing the very essence of it begin and how does an author know the difference?

Under Fantasy, you can read my first penning of the first chapter of Izabella. Make a comment if you will. Make a suggestion. Make several. I am currently looking over this first draft, one very similar but more concise, and one which I have begun much further into the story; where some might say the real story begins. I think the question remains though, have I killed the crux, the spirit, the soul, the embodiment of my story?

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