I don’t recall the exact moment that I knew that I wanted to be a writer, and I can’t think of a single moment that I didn’t. Perhaps it was a preordained thing being raised an only child in a household of teachers, surrounded by stacks and stacks of books. All kinds of books. My reading was never censored. My father declared that it was fine for me to read practically anything, Tolstoy to tabloids, because I should be intelligent enough to know what had value and what didn’t.
I took a particular liking to historical books early on, and my passion for historical research no doubt came from my father as well. Whenever I would come across a word I didn’t understand, or an item I couldn’t identify, I would call out to him, “What does–mean?” And, his response inevitably would be “Look it up!” I embraced that habit early on.
I am able to trace my evolution as a writer in the contents of boxes stacked in the closets in my home, from the earliest stories of pets and woodland animals, to the years of youthful discovery and swirls and flourishes (aka overwriting) in my prose. Then there are the mid years when passionate buccaneer novels were the rage, clothing became more revealing or non-existent, and amorous activities more graphic (that period seemed to go on quite a long time). Today my work is more cautious, but stronger, and reflects the accumulation of a lifetime of experiences that fit perfectly with my chosen genre, historical romance.
I am more disciplined, and if I have learned the value of one single attribute above all others, it is …persistence. No matter how talented you are or how much education you may have acquired, without persistence there is little chance you will be able to reach the goals you have set for yourself. And, if you are perchance a writer, you almost assuredly will not hold a finished novel in your hands and experience that bigger than life moment of exhilaration when you know that you have actually done it!
So, press on toward success in whatever you choose to pursue.