Ah… It’s Mother’s Day

Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms, stepmoms, grandmoms. The same goes for the moms who mother their dogs and cats (because we know they are our children, as well.) And, since we’re adding moms of pets, I would be remiss in not wishing the same to authors—after all, how many times do you read or hear an editor, agent or workshop facilitator say “we know your manuscript is your child, but…”

My mother is very special. She is a most unselfish person with her time, talents and praise. She is also very artistic. She has her own art gallery in Kingsland, Texas appropriately called “Trails of Rembrandt.” She is in her seventies and still teaches art to elderly and home schooled children. So every day is a social event for her.

I tell you this, not only as a tribute to her, but to explain a little of my path towards writing. In high school I took an art class and she came in as a speaker. She must have been appalled by my inability to paint. I could draw—animals, flowers, etc. But needless to say, painting was not my forte.  I had to give it up. Then in my thirties I began singing lessons. Well, that’s an unfortunate age to begin a singing career without YouTube available. I still sing, however, only it is more along the lines of holding my own karaoke parties.

In the early 2000’s, I decided I would do musical theater. The competition is brutal, even in community theater, though I’ll admit it broadens your network throughout a good-sized town for future endeavors. I was a nun in The Sound of Music, the ensemble (we sisters referred to it as the Nunsemble). Theatre is fun for the most inappropriate gags, especially, if you played a nun.

Then in 2006 I began writing. Writing romance. And, it was there I found my niche. Or at least it seems to have found me. So I completely believe I owe my mom (and my grandmom—she sang with Bette Davis’ husband’s big band in the early forties for a short time), my profound love and thanks for what artistic abilities I inherited, in whatever form they manifested themselves.

My mom saved my first manuscript to compare to its published version. She couldn’t be more proud. Which, in turn, makes me proud. I hope I offer the same to my own daughter.

I love you, Mom.

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