I knew I wanted to be a writer as soon as I discovered picture books. As a girl, I wrote poetry and short stories and kept a journal that included both truth and fiction that would fool me many years later. I even won a Colorado governor’s student jingle contest. But the Creator decided I would be a journalist first. And a mom.
I always wrote creatively in stolen moments. My first novel, completed in the wee hours after working a swing shift in a newsroom, sits in a dusty box in the basement. There were short stories and magazine articles, too, a zillion pieces written on behalf of others. Countless press releases, letters, and speeches large and small.
My husband’s death in 2015 was life altering. I expect I will never stop missing him, and his passing set off an alarm: “One day” is nonsense, there is only today. With my Littles’ permission and support, I applied for the Institute of American Indian Arts MFA program and began to write in earnest.
The journey thus far has been both dreamy and difficult. I continue to be amazed by what it takes to make time to write while mothering and working full time, how many ways there are to shape a sentence, how long it takes — and how hard it is — to complete a novel, and how spacious and gracious our community of writers can be.
