Before I became a writer I wanted answers to a life I had not yet lived. I engaged in a constant battle with myself. Physically, I lived in the present, traveling across the country in my twenty-four foot Winnebago motorhome with my cat, Sportster. As the day rolled on by my windshield, my mind reached down the road, around the bend and into the next hour, day or year, wanting to know about my future, my next adventure. How many times did I miss the awe of the picture-perfect scenes scrolling past? I didn’t cherish the softness of the pine scented breeze, brushing my face, which drifted into the open window. No, I let it all pass me by. I wanted to know what was down the road. I wanted answers to a life I had not lived.
I didn’t take the dive into the deep pool of eternity. Do you know why? The fear of failure. What if I failed the suicide attempt? To me, that failure would be the ultimate failure, so instead, I pressed on.
As an author, I enjoy the success of those failures. In simplest terms, I can incorporate my tragedies into my books. The experiences of those dark days and the process of trudging through them have miraculously evolved into the success I enjoy today. They are threaded into my stories and have changed people’s lives.