Last week, I sold my third novel, “Dreaming of a Kiss”. It feels like this should be a time when I reflect on my life as a writer and what that means.
I’m not sure I know the answers. My life as a writer is part of everything I do. If I’m sitting at a traffic light, I look at the guy next to me and I wonder why his face is all scrunched up like that. Is he so mad he could kill someone, or did he forget to stop at the little boy’s room and he’s been on the road for hours?