When I was a kid I used to sit in a tree and write poetry and plays. The poetry was about things that didn’t make sense, and the plays were about British people, who did make sense. Inspiration is a funny thing. I didn’t want to grow up to be a writer. That girl who wrote in the old oak tree knew that people didn’t become writers. People become teachers, firefighters and doctors. A writer, well that wasn’t a position one could choose. It’s just something people are magically elected for. And still I wrote. No matter what I wrote.
I speak about that girl from east Texas a lot. The one I used to be. Because I know she’d have a hard time believing that somewhere in the cosmos she was elected to be a writer and one day a published author. I have insider knowledge that she really doubted whether she’d ever do much. I’m pretty certain she never realized that one day her books would be featured in Publishers Weekly or Glamour UK. That young girl would be certain that fell under “things that didn’t make sense.” But that girl also spent a lot of time watching BBC, and that’s probably why I became something that did make sense: an author. Inspiration is a funny thing.
Yes, I’m a small town girl who still has a hard time believing that the books I’ve written are world wide…and that people read them.