Ten years ago this month, I read something called an inspirational romance novel. I was intrigued by the concept of wholesome love stories for Christian women, and even though I'd never dabbled in fiction-writing, for some reason I thought I might be able to create something as entertaining and as encouraging as what I had just read. So I sat down at my computer that very afternoon and became a writer.
I immediately loved everything about the writing process: the plotting, the research, creating the first draft--and even the rewriting and the editing. So nine months after I started banging out that first scene, I had a completed, highly polished manuscript ready to send to the publisher I'd targeted. I queried and was invited to send in the full manuscript. Then I sat down to wait.
Several months later, in March of 2002, I was contacted by an editor who "loved" the story and wanted to buy it. That first book, Finding Hope, was published in July 2003.
I am not a prolific writer. I've had just three other books published since that time, the last of them two full years ago. As I posted here the other day, some pesky health issues derailed my writing for a time, but I'm back in the saddle again, so as soon as I write a synopsis I'll contact my editor to see if she remembers me and if she'd like to see a new submission.
I'll let you know how that goes.