My story is all too familiar. I've been writing FOREVER!
Except for when I wasn't. For about seven years after I met my husband, he didn't know I was a writer.
And then one night, a few days after I finished reading a certain sparkly novel, I watched a Rascal Flatts music video and cried my eyes out. I totally blame the song/video - it was particularly heart-wrenching and full of angst. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I was 3 months pregnant at the time. I swear it didn't.
Follow this up with an email from one of my dearest friends in the wholewideworld who told me she'd just "found it" ... the it being what she was meant to do with her life. And then I turned green. First, because, well, I was pregnant and sick, then secondly because hey, I wanted to find "it" too!
What I didn't realize was that my "it" had been there all along, lying dormant in the back of my head. Sort of like that long-loved sweater that fell off the shelf and got shuffled behind a bunch of things to the back of the closet. You thought you lost it, but then you just forget about it, until one day, when the fates allow and the stars align, and maybe when you're overly emotional, you find it again. You reaffirm your love, wear it for a week and then realize, the baby bump and sweater are maybe not friends. Well, maybe all of it is in parallel except for that last part.
Are you still reading? Oh, you are! Hooray! ... Well, in the time since The Great Sweater Discovery, as I think the story above shall forever be named, I've written 5 complete manuscripts, met countless amazing writers - many of whom have become dear friends, have an umpteen number of new projects started, and have had the privilege of signing with The Gernert Company.
Luckily I have a fabulously supportive fisherman husband who has no problem entertaining our 2 chickies and little bug . . . so long as no one is crying, or screaming, or hungry, or being children. ;-)
That's the story for now, but like the line in Rascal Flatts' "Stand" ... "Life's like a novel, with the end ripped out . . ."