Several years ago, I was asked in an interview to describe myself in six words. I don’t know where my response came from, but I do remember not thinking about it more than a nano-second. My response: THE FAT LITTLE ENGINE THAT COULD.
All my life, people have laughed when I said I wanted to be a novelist. And why not? I’d wanted to pursue that path all my life and talked about it - a lot - but talk is cheap, and even though I made several feeble attempts over the years, it wasn’t until I was in my mid-forties that I put my butt in front of a keyboard armed with one of the most serious words in the world: Commitment.
And I did it.
I chugged up that hill, word by painful word, until my first novel was finally done. And even though that book snagged me my first agent and short listed me with a few publishers, it’s still sitting in a drawer. But did the little engine give up? No. I kept going and am happy and proud to say that in September Midnight Ink will release my 12th published novel, Hide and Snoop. And between Midnight Ink and Berkley, I have contracts for seven more books waiting to be fulfilled.
But The Fat Little Engine Wasn't Satisfied. In my mid-fifties, when I said I was going to enter the Camp Pendleton Mud Run, people eyed my considerable bulk, rolled their eyes and laughed. Well, I entered and completed the course in the official time.
Now, as I stand on the precipice of sixty, I’m tackling another long-time dream. This time calling on THE FAT LITTLE ENGINE THAT DID to do it again. That dream I’ll talk about another time since the engine is still in the station, working up a head of steam to tackle the next hill.
I know I can. I know I can. I know I can...