Why do I write? I got too old to play with dolls? (Melissa Robbins)

I like to think I am blessed with a vivid imagination. When I was a child to cure the boredom of waiting for our food at restaurants, the salt and pepper shakers conversed the most fascinating stories. Sometimes the sugar packets visited. Plastic creamer cups made lovely furniture.

My first experience in writing a book came in elementary school. My story was about the adventures of a white winged unicorn with a rainbow mane and tail. My teacher “published” the book by using cardboard and rainbow grid contact paper. I don't recall the plot, but I remember the illustrations being superb.

I continued my writing endeavors in high school. I loved all things piracy after reading Treasure Island. I started a few pirate stories, but never finished.

In college, my love of writing mysteries formed. I can thank my mother and Agatha Christie for that. I started, but never finished my Scottish paranormal mystery. I spent one summer at a camp and a camp mystery for YA brewed, throwing in my own experiences. Ah, to tell the tale of the Squirrels vs. Wolves.

Children came and my writing suffered until one day. My son, diagnosed with heart defects while still in the womb, spent five weeks at a children's hospital after his birth. While there, a world formed and characters appeared. Characters who became like family.

More kids came, but those characters stayed with me. I wrote here and there when I “found” the time. One day, I met a lady at my dance class, Fran. As she can attest to, our dance teacher pitted Fran and I against each other when it came to dance. Competition was good for the soul. During the course of our friendship, Fran said she was writing a romance. I found a fellow writer. Fran wrote at least a page a day. I could do that! Once I realized my love of writing never left me, I made the time. Last November, I finished the manuscript with the characters I met while Duncan was in the hospital. Fran finishing her story was a kick in the pants for me. Darn that competition. Will that story be published? Maybe, maybe not. Will I have a copy of it among my other treasured books? Most definitely.

Why do I write? Because I want to. I need to. Writing makes me happy.