When you are out for a drive, do you ever look at the houses and farms you pass and wonder who owns them and what their lives are like?
I do.
In fact, I not only wonder but I also make up stories in my head about who lives there and what their lives are like. Which I guess is why I’ve decided to try and write fiction.
The problem I have is that I’m not particularly good at sharing my stories. I have a bunch of manuscripts written that I should send to agents or publishers if I want to get them out to readers, but I have a ridiculously hard time pushing the submit button.
When my kids were little, we read other people’s stories; I never told them any of my own.
I have no idea why.
My kids are supportive and accepting. They would have loved to hear their mother’s crazy thoughts. But I just didn’t share them.
But earlier tonight, when I was making the long drive home from the city, I took a different route and passed a pink gingerbread house.
It was shocking, and ugly and wonderfully beautiful all at once.
And it cried out to have a story told about it.
So, I’m going to write it, and, in a year, I’ll send it to a publisher.
Because this story in my head is a good story. It’s a story worth sharing.
Besides, I’m sure I’m not the only one who has driven by this house and wondered why it’s painted such a shocking pink color.
And since I’m definitely too shy to drive back and knock on the door and ask for the real reason, my readers and I will just have to be satisfied with the one I’ve made up instead.
Stay tuned.
