The standard question virtually every kid is asked at some point in their lives is, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”  It’s as though adults can’t think of anything original so they ask the same questions of children year after year.  Most kids have an answer while some just shrug and look at their mommies for a suitable response.  Oh I knew what I wanted to be but it wasn’t any one thing really.  While my standard answer given almost always was, “a teacher, a writer and President of the United States,” I had other interests like winning the gold medal at the winter Olympics for my freestyle ice skating routine (the one I perfected in socked feet on my parents’ kitchen floor).  It’s true I went through phases along with movies such as “Man from Snowy River” (wanted to raise horses in the outback) or “Singing in the Rain” (wanted to be an actress).  Peppered among each occupation or hobby I found fascinating growing up, I had a love for writing.  I always saw myself writing books.  Even if I was breaking wild horses by day, I’d be writing by firelight at night.

Here I am, at thirty and while I find it highly unlikely that I’ll ever be President of the United States or an equestrian or a gold medalist in any sporting event;  I homeschool my children, therefore I am a teacher.  I couldn’t see myself teaching a room full of “other people’s kids” but I do enjoy teaching my little darlings.  Even as fulfilling as that work is (although the level of fulfillment varies by day – or even hour lol), I find that I will likely never let go of the dream of being published.
For years, non-writers, have raved over my work.  This, I fear, created a false confidence in my abilities growing up.  I truly believed my work publishable.  The older I get, the less I believe it.  I think about the thousands of writers who get rejected each year and I know my amateur status works against me.  I expressed these feelings of inadequacy to my wonderful husband and do you know what he said?  He said, “I think what you write is great, but you’ll never know if it’s publishable if you don’t send it out.”  He’s right, he usually is and this time is no different.
So, I've decided to do it.  I've finally decided to attempt to break into the professional writing arena.  Over the past couple of months I've been researching like a fanatic the process of getting published.  Let me just say, calling it a “process” is a gross understatement.  It's more like a life-long journey wrought with ups and downs and all with absolutely no guarantee of ever becoming successful.

“Writing” has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember.  Even before I started putting pencil to paper I was making up stories to entertain the neighbor kids.  When I began writing things down, my repertoire always included a play or two which the neighbors were conned into acting out.  For years I’ve scribbled short stories, poetry, and plays.  I’ve even started a few novels.  It would be impossible for this dream to become a reality without some risk.  I’m going to have no choice but to submit some of my work and wait for a response.

I have a ms which I believe to be ready for submission.  I’m nervously researching possible publishers and hoping that by the end of July I’ll have mailed it off.  I cannot believe I’m giving myself a deadline like that – have I lost my mind???  Ok, well, there it is then, the end of July I MUST have it mailed to at least one publisher.