This is where I could tell you the usual things that most writers tell you—that they bleed ink, that they were born storytellers, that they love words more than anything else.
And sure–I share most of those traits. I’ve been telling stories since I could speak. If I seem distant when you talk to me, it’s probably because my brain is somewhere far away, constructing dialogue or building a castle or working out a plot point. I love the sound and feel of beautiful words. I love to weave thought and intention into the kind of story that sinks its hooks deep into your soul and won’t let go.
But I am a reluctant author. Very reluctant.
I do not write because I want to make a living as an author. I know that may never happen.
I do not write because I want people to read my work. Indeed, every publication—even the simplest blog post—comes fraught with worry, anxiety, and shaking, hesitant fingers.
I do not write because I feel it’s God’s calling, or because I think I have some special gift, or because I have a message for the world.
I write for one reason.
I write because if I don’t, it poisons me.
If the words don’t come out as story, they come out in other ways. My soul rots from the inside out if I don’t write. And for whatever reason, part of writing means publishing, like it or not.
So I am the most reluctant of authors. My journey and my story are atypical. But if you are interested in a non-traditional view of a non-traditional publishing route from a non-traditional author, you’re welcome to tag along for the ride.
When I’m not writing, you can usually find me reading, knitting, or herding the four young humans who live in my house and call me “Mom.” My family calls the great Pacific Northwest home, and we love to hike, camp, and spend time enjoying the many blessings of our corner of the U.S.