My first had no words, only sounds with my mother and brother interpreting them. My tale in full flow they’d explain, “Yes, she says no.”
My next, ever-flowing, kept oceans of sixth-graders silent while my tales were told. Said the teacher, “Please write them,” but yes, I still answered no.
When the principal offered a huge microphone to the mouth of small story-born me I said no to her too, then picked up a pencil.
My next was in bright-colored ink, each new set of text in a shade all its own from my fat and glorious many-pointed victorious pen.
I told my tales at bedtimes to brothers but if they annoyed me during the day I’d threaten withholding of fiction. Cruel is the sister.
I told my tales to school friends and learned you can’t just make it so without research but you can make friends laugh and cry.
Pregnant with dreams, sitting in the corner of the bus staring out through the window, pregnant with tomorrow, I wanna be a novelist, paperback writer.
Teacher asked "Do you want a long boring life or a short exciting one?" I chose long and boring with time to write curious excitement.
In junior high I learned it’s not right to write stories where parents meet, marry and carry their first-born infants in six months or less.
In senior high I loved Star Trek, started writing fan fiction but nobody told me such things had a name so I hid them away.
In college I studied math because if my math’s right there’s no one can tell me they still think it’s wrong. Right’s always right, right?
In college my son studied writing ‘cause if his tale’s wrong it won’t matter; he’ll still know it’s right. Should have met him back then.
In college I told my boyfriend I like to write. “Oh dear,” said he. “So does my sister,” so I mistakenly thought he liked writers.
My stories were putting my children to bed. My oldest son said it’s not a story if nobody’s written it down. I started writing again.
My stories were Sunday school dramas and games and ways to keep small children still, little sixth graders too—nothing’s ever new under this sun.
My stories were chess games reformatted into the epic of players competing so lessons be learned so my little club kids could beat the opposition.
My stories were dreams sent out to unresponsive agents and editors and strange magazines but I got a letter published. Oldest son published a poem.
Getting a job with computers wasn't conducive to writing my dreams but I still used words, just didn’t write them down or type them anymore.
Oldest son left home to be a doctor. Computer job went away and my writing dream turned into hopes I might one day get paid.
Middle son came home to work in town. Still no job, still no writing contracts, still dreaming, gather-ing sweet inspiration, self-publishing, thanking friends for encouragement.
Youngest son followed the writing dream and got a job with computers. Mother followed the computer trek and signed a contract for an ebook—computerized.
Writers read, right? So I read and started gather-ing book reviews—wrote stories on gather.com too—found authors and publishers reading them. Continued to dream.
Writers write, right? So I wrote a blog, left comments on blogs and made imaginary friends, or virtual… something. Friends anyway. Tell tales without words:)
And now my first novel’s come out and it feels like a grandchild held safe in my arms—do I dare trust it to bookstores?
Do I dare trust my precious tale to reviewers? Do I remember why I studied math? But right’s not write and what I’ve written’s mine.
Letting the baby book into the world. Dividing my Zero by singular dreams as they slip the other side of infinity. Yes, she says yes.
Thanking my internet friends for all their encouragement over the years and hoping at least some might like and recognize the book—Divide by Zero!
Thanking my internet friends, gloriously virtual, definitely real, and dreaming in ten years’ time I’ll still be writing books with my friends still reading them.
Thanking my gather friends, blogger friends, facebook friends, linkedin friends, twitter friends, lunch friends and more, my Infinite Sum of friends inspiring an undivided sequel.
A garden of stone and a shadow of gypsies, a dream without words turned into stories, a wordless child become writer, an author, write on!