I have a lot of stories. I write them down often.

But I might as well use this day to confess why I resurrected the blog. I’m working on another book, and I’m hoping my stories here entice at least a few folks to buy it if I ever get it published.

The thing is, this book isn’t really MY story. It’s mostly my mom’s story, with some of mine sprinkled throughout, and then an entirely made up daughter to lend some drama.

But if you’ve been reading my posts, you probably know that my mom has some pretty good stories. And the ones I have used here aren’t even the best ones, which I’m (duh) saving to sell.

I am hoping to have my first draft done by June, and to be querying agents by December at the latest.

While you wait, here is a story my mother loves to tell about me.

“When you were three or four, I lost my emerald cocktail ring. I knew that I had lost it, I didn’t assume you’d swiped it from my jewelry box or anything. But I also knew that you loved shiny things, and if you’d seen it lying around, you would have been all over it. So I asked you if you had it. You said no.

But c’mon. You were four. So I asked again. No, you hadn’t seen it. And again. No, And AGAIN. NO I NEVER TOOK IT. But I knew it could take some doing to get that baby memory going, so I kept poking at you.

Finally you sighed, looked right at me and said, “Ummm. OK. Yes. I saw it. I was playing outside, and I was walking to my swing, and I saw it in a gopher hole, but before I could get it, it fell into a rocket ship that took off and now it is in space somewhere.”

“Well, that was even better than the time you told me you were in the vacant lot behind our house—where you really weren’t supposed to be—because you were hunting lions but found a horse, so I figured you really hadn’t seen the ring.”

I remember being four (vaguely), and although I would LOVE to say I had perfected the art of snark at that age, I am pretty sure that this was just a desperate ploy to get the bare light bulb out of my face and end the interrogation. What I do remember is (1) there was a horse for a little while in the vacant lot behind our house, and I named it Linda, and (2) my mom laughed and laughed about the rocket ship, which was shocking to my child brain that was braced an unjust punishment.

Maybe that’s when I decided words were my jam? Hard to say. It was around that time that I wrote a Book of Arwen (nothing like the book of Mormon, mind you), but it was a picture book of things I liked about my life. I wonder where that is.

Oh, and the ring did eventually turn up—in a pocket of a pair of my mom’s blue jeans.

So, that’s my story. And since I imagine we all love stories, let’s do another book giveaway: Tell me a story, and I’ll send you someone else’s!