Big Marsh and Little Marsh, and Big Denise and Little Denise—the first two with blue eyes and honey brown hair; the other two, dark haired with darker blue eyes—were the early heroines of my first stories. I was about four years old, spinning tales of horsey adventures featuring these four sisters ages 14 and 4, for the entertainment of my younger siblings. For whatever reason—I don't remember now—I was stuck on the names Marsh and Denise. All right, I know why I was stuck on the name Denise. Denise was our landlord's fourteen-year-old daughter, and she owned a beautiful mahogany bay gelding named Chico.

But I don't know who inspired the name Marsh. Denise needed a companion her own age, and of course, some worshipful little sisters. The girls may or may not have been two sets of twins. There was a set of those in my kindergarten class—Sheila and Sherry. So, possibly. The thing that sticks out most when I think back to that time, is the impression of the two Marshes and Denises being really good friends, as well as sisters. The older girls never thought their little sisters were annoying little brats they had to disappear on. Did everything together, they did!

The grown ups kept trying to get me to revise some aspects of my little worlds. My mom, for instance, kept trying to get me to call Marsh Marsha. What kid would be called Marsh, after all? Sounded like she was named for a swamp or something!

But, hey—that's not who either of them were! Neither did I want to hear that each of the girls should have her own name. They were my girls and I could name them what I wanted to! Years later, dreaming up different spellings for common names became another of my passions. Much to those same grown ups laments. Heh, heh.

When I was ten, my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Miller, began reading to us the tales from the Arabian Nights. Before she finished that book, I'd launched what I'd decided would be my life's career. New worlds of magical caves and houses with endless rooms. Treasues galore! And horses! Can't forget the horses! Such a sense of freedom and power there seemed to be in creating those worlds. And the joy of sharing them with the class, experiencing their eagerness to hear them—their pleas to be characters in them, was just priceless. Later, in the eighth grade, I wrote a story featuring my home room teacher, Mrs. Ohotnicky and her new husband. With no idea that they were really doing this, I wrote about them adopting a bunch of kids. Finished it after school got out, and took it to their house. As they weren't home, I left it in the door or the mailbox and went home. I don't know what they thought when they read it, but they still have that story they tell me!

A year or so later, I finished my first real novel I called "Captive Tomboy", which was about a young girl captured by Apaches who became a warrior girl. I sent that off to what I thought was a publisher, and waited anxiously for a reply. Came while I was recuperating in the hospital after a bad attack of appendicitis . . .

The first few lines of that letter made my little heart leap. They liked it, and they wanted to publish it!

Oh, wait. Wait. There's a catch . . .

They'll publish it . . . for a price.

$1776.00

That was my first dose of reality. Not all publishers are created equal.

I don't know what happened to that letter. I think my parents took it home with them while I slept. It was a disappointment, but not a put off. I revised the story over the next few months, and let my junior year high school teacher, Miss Cassill, read it. I don't really know what she thought about it. When I asked her what she'd thought of it, all I can recall her saying was, "I'm trying to figure out what to do with that."

Might have meant anything from "It's got promise, but needs work. I'd like to help." to "Stinks, but I don't want to cripple your fragile 16 year old feelings." Don't really know. But I like to believe she would have helped me if I'd had the guts to have asked her to read it much earlier in the year. I didn't ask until the year was nearly ended. She got me started with a subscription to Writer's Digest; told me to keep writing . . . and then . . . summer vacation started. During which, she quit and went back to Ohio—taking, I presume, my story with her since I never got it back.

Well, that was a bummer. And I resented all the talk and rumors that surrounded her leaving that following year. I liked her; she'd stuck up for me the year before when the creepy kids picked on me; and she'd read my story. Up till then, no one had read anything I wrote and had taken it seriously. Not even my guidance counselor. But, then, I hadn't let her read that story. I gave her all the others instead. Back then, I did dumb stories about orpahned little girls who were adopted by people like Sonny and Cher, and one or other of the Deatles. Think there was one involving the Monkees . . . the heroine falling in love with Peter . . . Kid stuff, yeah, but, it should have been a clue as to whether I had a measure of talent . . .

Got no real feedback on those. Mrs. Sullivan was way past the age of caring about any of those famous people. And all she noticed was that I needed to "grow up".

Which I did when I had my first real crush on a guy. Thom . . . Oh, yeah . . .!

I took a real happening—stopping for a burger at McDonald's with him (and a friend)—and turned it into my first romance. Left the friend out of it for that! I think it had a happy ending . . . I think . . . Yeah. Yeah, I think I got the guy in the end. In real life, they called me his little sister . . . Sigh.

All those four years in high school, I wrote. I wrote in Math. I hated Math. I learned enough to pass, and then I wrote some more.

I got jobs and I wrote on breaks and later when I got home. My first real success came when I sold a piece to True Experience. They wanted me to rewrite it, but I didn't. They published it as it was. Today, I would probably, at least, consider a rewrite. It's been over thirty years . . . I could do it again, and do it better . . .!

Well, from that point it's all just more writing. Life happening as it does to us all. Which is why we keep writing. Of course, one can get to wondering why we keep writing. This business not being a walk in the park for most of us.

Okay—we can walk in the park. But it doesn't mean we'll find that golden publishing contract just laying around on the ground for us to trip over. Some of us get mugged or diverted or have other adventures along the park's paths. Some have rescues, find a good network of others to work with, or just one person who backs them up. gives them a candy bar or a picnic basket so they don't starve while they're exploring the park's wonders and wildernesses. Some learn from their experiences and find other ways to reach their goal. Others are frightened off by the unfairness of it all, and quit.

There are wolves in the park's wild side that don't mind pretending to be your publishing friend, praising your work, and then preying on your pocket book. My next experience with a publisher was a bigger disappointment than my first one as a kid! Certainly got away with much more than $1776! Not that my parents forked that out, at the time. I doubt I even suggested the possibility. In any case, we'll leave this tale for another page . . . Needs a title all it's own!

What happened with that publisher, together with the years of gathering enough rejections to paper two rooms on all four walls, formed the basis of my considering the alternatives. Self publishing—just not with vanity presses. I didn't quite know what to think about electronic publishing, at first. But that alternative grew on me quickly.

Such a hard road to travel, self publishing. Yet, there were lots of authors doing it. Lots who had in the past. Why couldn't I be one of them? Why shouldn't I be one of them!

The big question was: did I have the guts to do it? Learning how to do it is the easy part. Not lazy easy. Just easy in comparison to, say, actually doing it. Since this is still a learning game, I'm still learning whether I have the guts to do it or not. But I have learned a ton of what this business is now like.

Since I come from the "I ain't got a nickle to spare" school, I am still learning to do it all myself. A daunting task. I'd rather be writing. But until I can outsource, I must learn on and spend the time. And while I learn, I don't mind sharing the lessons. Mostly for free, sometimes not . . .

There's all kinds of reasons why people write. But, for me, I've always wanted it to be my job. A job I loved, and could call the shots on. When I worked and when I didn't. All the fun of making up worlds, not only for my own amusement, but for others.

A goal, I'm determined to succeed in . . . starting today!