I grew up on the outskirts of town and many afternoons’ were spent lost in the pages of books. An avid reader from as long as I can remember, I devoured books. My mother also a reader encouraged us, never censoring any of the books we picked up. So, a love of the written word came early and young.
Her only exception to written words was a warning, she gave often. “Don’t ever put in writing, what you don’t want others to read.” I didn’t heed her words, particularly, as a teenager with love letters and diaries often getting me into trouble. Just as reading became second nature, so did writing. I filled journals with poems and essays, all in a secret place.
My secret place was the cow pasture behind our house. Nearly every day I climbed the fence and ran down the hill through a crowd of cattle to a stream. There under the trees, with the black-spotted cows looking on, I filled notebooks with writings. I found my voice.
I will be 58 years old this month, and for the first time ever I am putting on paper for all those who choose to read, my words. I write every day. Sometimes it’s an opinion, thought, or an essay. Other days I write short stories. I am working on my first novel and enjoy the mentorship of a wonderful writers group. I write because I love to write, and no longer have to hide down by a stream in a cow pasture.
Welcome to the Cow Pasture Chronicles.