It all started when I put together a photo montage of my dog Jazzy's first year. Eleven Jazzy books later with three still hiding in my computer, I've finally admitted that I'm a writer. 


The writing bug took me by force. The stories rattling around in my brain were fighting to be heard. They still bicker.  I can't tell you how many stories I've started only to be interrupted by another one. But I digress, these are stories that are not finished.  

My intentions were noble. I would do this on my own.  I wouldn't bow down the to giant publishing companies. I could make it on my own. 


I invested in printing my books. I dragged hundreds of copies all over Virginia, and parts of West Virginia, Maryland and Pennsylvania. For a year, I enjoyed children's festivals, book festivals and other "festivals" where I had a table selling books.


Ha, I laugh at my innocent self.  My naïve notion that if I wrote it, and one person bought it, the explosion of love for my books would carry them forward. How little did I know of the fickle nature of consumers. They said, "How cute!" "What a great book!" "Oh, look this would be great for little Susie."  but they weren't buying them. That's when I learned a lesson. People don't buy because your product is good or inexpensive, they buy because you, the maker of that product, have convinced them they cannot live without it.  

I finally figured out how to talk to people in a way that they could see the benefits of purchasing my books. Then Covid-19 came along. 

So here I am. A self published author of, and I brag here, several wonderful children's books that have gone nowhere because I didn't know what I was doing. 

I have a plan. Nobody will hear me if I don't speak out. How do you speak out in a world of social restrictions? Why, you get on a platform that is world wide, the place I tried to avoid,  Amazon.  

It will take a bit of work to get all my books out there since I must reconfigure each page of each book to upload it to IngramSpark which in turn puts it on Amazon. 

I must admit that I have decided to try a traditional path. I've sent one unpublished Jazzy book to an agent.  I wait, patiently to hear word, any word, from them. I use this waiting as an excuse to put off reformatting my other Jazzy Books for self publishing via IngramSpark. I call this legitimate procrastination. 

In the mean time, I write more.  I write about survivors in a post Covid-19 world. I write about a teenage girl with emotional issues that proves a ghost's innocence.  Words forge an unlikely friendship out of a common misery. Let's not forget the elf who left the North Pole for adventures of his own. Another story begs of love gone wrong, an innocent child, and a wrong made right. All of this rolls around in my head. 

One day all of these stories will find a place on the pages of a book.