Magic is real & it is happening to me

6 years ago, a woman sat down to write a novel. She was a single parent with no job, who had returned to the tiny town of Gardiner, Oregon, to live with her mother while experiencing the most crushing sense of panic and hope of her entire life.

No, this is not J.K. Rowling's story. This is my story. It is a story that includes six months as a house-sitter (sponging utilities off my very kind middle sister), a year sponging off my mother, a year sponging off my oldest sister, six months folding laundry to pay my student loan and an idea that wouldn't go away: that I was meant to be a writer. So, close to two years ago, preparing to begin coursework to become a certified Waldorf teacher, I had an epiphany. I realized that I could continue struggling to find a decent-paying job that would swallow my heart and soul, or I could try to become a real writer.

I spent three days in mourning. Then I put my nose to the grindstone, and within a few weeks, I'd made my first short story sale.

Well, today, I'm happy to announce that I've made my first PRO sale. See that book cover at the top of this post? I'm one of the "many more."

Me. A chick who just a few short years ago was filling out paperwork for public health insurance and food stamps. A chick who was prepared to work at her fairly unremarkable retail job for the entire rest of her life if that meant giving herself a chance to write just one one good story.

It's not like I've made a six-figure salary and retired from the day job. But when I heard that my words could be in a book with words from personal writing heroes like Peter S. Beagle & Neil Gaiman, I felt pretty damn good about quitting that teacher training program. Now I know I've written at least one good story.

And I'm just getting started.