The first story I ever wrote was called, “The Talking Shoes.”
I can’t tell you what it said, because I don’t remember. I was in the 4th grade. It was entered into a contest, and I won. I had to go to a convention of some sort and read the blasted thing, too. I did it. I remember, even today, standing in front of all those people and being terrified out of my mind. I read my story though, like a champ. Met some local authors and illustrators. Even got a free book that was signed and everything.
I had zero idea way back then that I’d someday write professionally. But honestly, if I could spin a fantastic tale out of a pair of talking shoes that won an award and was worthy of being read in front of a crowd, it couldn’t have been complete rubbish, right? I mean, it had to be somewhat rubbish, after all, I only had a 4th grade education. 😘 But there’s got to be some talent deep down in my bones somewhere. I like to think I honed it over the years and I’m an exceptional writer now. (Don’t burst my bubble, y’all. )
As someone who was never good with speaking words, I could certainly weave them together on paper decently enough. That should have been one of my first signs. The fact that I used to spend my days as a young child playing basketball out front, with a little radio and headphones in, crafting all sorts of stories in my head, should have been another one of those signs. And then when I got older, and despite trying not to win, I’d still, every year, manage to win these essay contests we were required to submit for extra credit in high school. Even when I gave it the least amount of effort I could, because I hated winning and having my picture taken and put in the newspaper, I’d still win. Every year. It should have been a clue. All the nights I used to spend out back in the my parent’s swing, headphones in, night sky above me, weaving even more stories together, usually inspired by the many different songs that blasted through the speakers…. it should have been a clue. Pair all that with my obsession for reading, and clearly, the writing had been on the wall all along.
It started with the talking shoes, but it didn’t end there.
What’s more? Many of the core characters of my first few novels, came from those late nights out in my parent’s backyard in my late teens and early twenties. Characters that popped into my head, with stories galore. I had no idea I’d put them to paper someday. But here I am. Still crafting and weaving, reading and writing, the same as I’ve done for years.
Sometimes people are just meant for things. Life has been nudging me in this direction my entire life; I just didn’t always know it.
I know it now though.
I don’t write about talking shoes anymore. Although, clearly, I’ve always been a creative genius… 😘) No, I spin tales of love and romance. Handsome men with piercing gazes and searing kisses… (Don’t let Dad read this Mom!😂) And lovely women with kind hearts, fierce character, and eyes for those handsome men. I write about loss and heartache, but then journeys that even despite pain, lead to happy endings and hopeful futures.
I guess that should come as no surprise given my kindle and bookshelves are slap full of romance novels.
No, there are no more talking shoes, but they certainly served their purpose way back when. They were the beginning. ❤️