There’s never been a time when writing wasn’t part of my existence. As a child, writing was my catharsis, my chosen outlet for self-expression, a means of reaching others the best way I knew how. By my young twenties, I’d completed my first novel, a historical romance. My book was an extension of me, of my “self”, a thing I’d breathed life into – given birth to. I’d made a huge emotional investment.
I shot it off to the top literary agents of that time. The first rejection letter knocked the breath out of me and I cried for hours. That was my first experience with the sharp sting of rejection. I feared hearing from the other agents. That fear was a hard fist in my stomach.
Another agent responded and I held the letter in trembling hands, unable to look, unable to look away. More rejections wouldn’t diminish my need to write, no matter how badly they stung. I tore open the envelope. Inside was an agent’s contract. Since that day, there’s not a day goes by that I’m not writing in one form or another. Writing is my essence. It’s core to my existence. I can’t not write.