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Eight or nine years ago, I saw an unusual-looking man on a bridge. I'd just started a walk, and I spent the rest of the walk making up stories about him and an imaginary alter ego of myself. I liked one of the stories so much that I typed it into my computer as soon as I got home. Then I added to it and added some more, until I had over 400 pages. I'd never had such a deeply satisfying experience before. I couldn't stop. Some itch I'd always suffered from felt like it had been scratched and alleviated. I've always loved to read, and sometimes fantasized about writing fiction, but never believed that I had the skills or imagination to do it. I no longer cared. It felt like I'd found my calling. I took a couple of writing workshops, let a few people read my stuff, and started rewriting my novel. Even editing it was a blast. More stories poured into my head, stories I didn't have time to write. I'd draft a short story and discover that it longed to explode into a novel. The internet provided me with a wealth of information, terms I'd never heard of: critique partners, beta readers, various kinds of editors. Blogs talked about plot structure, dialog, self-promotion, and so many other fascinating things. By now, I've rewritten the first novel many times. It's gone through at least three rounds of beta readers. It's finally telling me that it's about to grow wings and fly away, out of my control. A stack of half-finished stories can't wait for it to leave so they can have some of my attention. I've learned so much about writing in the past eight years. I can't wait to learn more. By trade, I'm a massage therapist. I have two corgis, who think they should get my undivided attention, not that stupid computer. I love to bicycle, hike, ski, garden and play music.
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