When I Grow Up…

When did you know you wanted to be a writer?  

I think if you ask that question of any writer, they would say, “I’ve always had stories floating around in my head.” The same is true of me.
When I was a little girl I was often accused of exaggerating.

The first elaborate story I told was to my preschool teacher at a Christian school:
“What does your daddy do for a living, Mindy?”

“My daddy fly’s airplanes. He’s in China right now.”                              
Fast-forward three hours to when my daddy picked me up from school and you can cue my teacher’s confusion and the vast number of lessons on why we don’t lie.

Life always seemed like it could use a little editing here, a revision of facts there. Some drama or tension should be added to this memory. The look between these two people needs to be told with a little more passion. All of these revisions of recollection just meant one thing…

I was destined to become a writer.

Now when I was little, my father was a preacher and my mother was a social worker. Not so conducive to the imaginative tales their daughter was spinning at the drop of a hat. As time went on, the stories became more elaborate and I found myself in more and more trouble. I could talk my way into mischief and then with a quick cut here and a carefully added adjective there find myself out of the very same trouble. So, when I graduated high school I joined the now family business of Real Estate Sales.

Perfect match, right?

It’s taken me 20 years to figure out that just because I was part of a family didn’t necessarily mean that I had to be part of that family’s business. So, here I am: a little girl who always knew I wanted to tell stories in the body of a woman just trying to publish her stories.
I hope you enjoy my journey.

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