I’ve lived many lives. Not in the reincarnation sense, although I’m open to the possibility, but in the formative years from birth until now. As a child, I was precocious. Actually, from experience with my own children, “precocious” is a nice way of saying, you’re a brat. So, yeah, I was kind of a brat when I was younger.
The Early Years. Bottoms Up! Is that a beer Mom’s holding?
As the afterthought baby and last child of my middle-aged parents, I was definitely spoiled rotten. I had three teenage siblings to dote, ignore or fight me. My mother told me later that by the time I came along, she was tired. It wasn’t until I had my last litter of children during my own Middle Ages that I really understood. Tired for a mother is an all-encompassing word.
Parental fatigue played into my teenage years. My parents loosened the cord and I got away with a lot more than my siblings had when they were growing up. This fed into my wilder twenties.
Smug teenager. Sorry, Mom
Fun. That was the word for my early twenties. I had fun. And, let’s leave it at that.
My late twenties and early thirties found me starting a second family. I call this my Tired Mommy Decade. It was about this time I started to find my voice in writing. Writing became my escape.
Words cannot begin to describe . . . in fairness, it was a cool wedding dress at the time.
When I was in my mid-thirties, I became a young widow. Raising two young children and one teenager alone was daunting at times. It was a sink or swim situation. I swam, occasionally dipping below the water, but always bobbing back to the surface. Even more so, writing was a necessary part during this time in my life.
By my forties, I had written and published a few short stories. At this point, young children were teenagers approaching adulthood. Living through my first child’s teenage years didn’t prepare me for the younger two. A few times I seriously thought about shipping them off to the Foreign Legion.
Devil’s Tower with some of my spawn
Thankfully, we all survived without killing each other. My mid-forties was a time of travel. I went from coast to coast and some interesting places in between.
New York, New York!
LA. John Wayne, Hollywood snakes and a magnificent view from the air
Vegas, baby! What happens in Vegas . . .
Snobby Vanderbilt ducks, The Parthenon and Tootsies!
Now, I’m here. Fifty is such a good, round number and I expected this decade to be pleasant and peaceful. It has not been. Turmoil, sorrow, despair and darkness tainted the early part of my fifties. I’m approaching the mid-range and while sorrow and darkness still linger, I’m having antonymous feelings toward those heavy emotions as sorrow enhances joy and darkness enhances light.
The periods of my life affect my writing. Sometimes subtly, sometimes boldly, but there is always a part of me in the endearing characters I create. I have to confess that there is also a little of me in the despicable narcissistic ones.
My next stories are developing and the adventures in my many different lives are strong influences. I’m sailing on the Sea of Words aboard the Good Ship Inspiration and the Waves of Imagination are high when, suddenly, I spot the Island of Dormant Novels. I think I’ll land there for awhile.
Emerald Lake, British Columbia