I do not call myself an author. Yet. But a writer? I was inspired to write a story years ago and there wasn’t a soul who could stop me from putting my fingertips to the keyboard. So yes, I am a writer.
After creating four complete manuscripts I am finally tip-toeing out of my cave, knocking away the cobwebs, and blinking into the sunlight.
One day, if God allows, I will show them to you. You will see their beautiful covers and you will be able to click on them to find out where you can purchase them.
Until that happens, or until God tells me to stop in this pursuit and dream another dream, I can only describe them for you.
They chronicle the life of a young woman and her sisters as they follow their family’s faithful but difficult path to America on the Mayflower. They are not caricatures who wear white coifs, and stiff collars, and never sin. They are real people, with real longings, real fears, and real faith that is sometimes fragile and sometimes wrong. Their journey is one worth taking for modern readers.
At times it still seems so far-fetched that I (why me?) could be a published author, to think that I have anything to contribute in a world so stuffed with superior talent.
Yet I continue to do it.
If, years from now, someone comes across the hundreds of thousands of words I have typed, and asks me why, I’m not sure what I will say. Because I wanted to, I suppose. Because I happened to come of age in a time in history when my most basic needs are met and my labor is easy, and so I can. Because I love words and stories. Because the crafting of them flows through me and out of my fingertips. Because I believe in the power of a story as much as I believe in the power of a living God.