I blog my thoughts into the blogosphere and hope someone notices.
I review books online whether anyone reads the reviews or not.
I write novels that rank somewhere in the top three million books sold on Amazon.
Sometimes I ask myself why I bother. And then I answer my own question: it’s like breathing. I can’t not write.
I’ve been writing stories on my own time, for my own amusement, ever since I was in elementary school. My first publication, however, was a critique of J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, written for a freshman advanced writers’ class at Marquette University. I suspect it received notice because I found Holden Caulfield tiresome and the entire novel a waste of time, which was the polar opposite of what most young people thought about that book in 1963.
For the next seventeen years, through marriage and motherhood and full-time jobs…
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