When I was 12 years old I started writing short stories. Since I was hormone-laden, as most teenagers are, most of these stories were typical unsophisticated romance tales which ended shortly after the first kiss since I really had no clue what came next (at the time). Every spare moment was devoted to scribbling in an an old school binder, filling up loose leaf pages as fast as I could. Mostly I wrote to give voice to the overwhelming feelings I was experiencing and to fill the huge empty hole which was my social life. While my friends were learning to curl and to flirt I was stuck at home looking after my younger sister because my mother had gone back to work.

The urge to write has never left me even though the opportunities for writing have been few and far between (read motherhood, jobs, marriages). Now I find myself working with rusty tools even though story ideas churn in my head (especially during the quiet moments when I’m trying to fall asleep). When I try to put these ideas on paper, now I see too many faults in my premises, too little depth to my characters and not enough darkness in my antagonists.

A little help? I welcome your comments and ideas.