Once upon a time, my sophomore English teacher asked me if I was going to be a writer and I, having a cavalier attitude that day, answered, “Oh, yeah,” making sure to use a tone that was not entirely serious, lest she suspect. Her immediate response was, “But… not fantasy, right?” From the way she spoke, it was clear she felt that writing fantasy was the biggest waste of time and talent known to mankind. And I, who was at that point already embroiled in composing the first novel of an epic fantasy trilogy, simply smiled and said nothing. (Silence neither confirms nor denies. The smile is added just to mess with people.)
Y’see, I started writing in my early teens but didn’t honestly admit it to anyone until about ten years later. Instead I kept that part of my life hidden like one would hide the very worst of vices. I remember the conversation where I finally spilled my dirty little secret. It happened in my parents’ basement, with three siblings and a cousin, and me feeling like I was confessing to a drug addiction. And when they were all totally cool with it, I was both relieved and confused. Maybe they had misunderstood…?
But of course they didn’t misunderstand. I’m related to a lot of smart people, even if I’m not always a smart person myself. It was a strange awakening for me that day. Another five years passed before I actually finished my first novel (Book #1 of the Epic Trilogy-That-Still-Only-Has-Two-Books), which was about the same time I started letting people actually read the dross I write. I opted to indie-pub a couple years after that and have released a book a year ever since. (The epic trilogy-that-isn’t bides its time in the shadows.)
So, yeah. Basically, it’s taken me forever to come out of my shell, writing-wise. But here I am. I can admit my chosen pastime aloud and in print. I’m a writer. I’m a fantasy writer. And, since I largely refuse to enlist others in my little projects, I’m also an editor, typesetter, cover artist, webmaster, and whatever other silly hat this endeavor requires me to wear. If you have any complaints or criticisms… well, whatever. A girl can only do so much.