My one true desire has never wavered: to become a published author—and briefly an archeologist, because I thought dinosaurs were so cool. I never doubted I would be a published writer, though. To create living, breathing worlds and characters that experience far more than I ever could. Who wouldn’t want to do that? Unfortunately, for good or bad, I’ve never been one to follow the direct or conventional path.

In ninth-grade English, I wrote a one-page horror story that elicited such wild, raucously positive reactions from my classmates when the teacher read it out loud that I knew I was on my way. That was my eureka moment. That felt awesome!

In 1989, at the age of twenty-four, I was certain that my story of working at Denali National Park, after moving to Alaska with nothing but a backpack, would be picked up by Alaska Magazine. It wasn’t—apparently, I wasn’t that unique. I read the terse reply—Doesn’t meet our needs at this time—with a plummeting heart. So final. No room for negotiation. Just, No. Fantasies of becoming a celebrated scribe took a real hit on the head. But, well, okay. I’ll come up with something else, I thought, another story, something irresistible.

Years passed. I’d written six or seven new stories—fiction and non-fiction—each one rejected. I became a bit concerned. But I would not give up my dream just because some stuffy editor couldn’t see the potential right in front of them. Mind you, I had only a high school diploma, and I’d struggled even for that due to a lifelong battle with dyslexia. It took years of focus to stop those letters swimming on the page and train myself to see the actual words. I’ve always loved reading, but it took years to become proficient. Apparently, the same was true of writing. Huh, interesting.

In 1992, I wrote my first novel, The Storm, an enormous 173,000-word supernatural thriller. Until then, my sexuality remained ambiguous on the written page—and in real life. But in my first book, I included several leading gay characters. It felt fresh and daring. A copy of Writer’s Market provided addresses for publishing houses open to gay themes. With multiple queries dispatched, I waited with a renewed confidence for the requests to roll in—this was, after all, a serious effort. How could anyone reject a 670-page thriller? This would be The One. Move over Shirley Jackson and Stephen King. (I apologize for my youthful arrogance and naiveté, but what aspiring author hasn’t dreamed of that kind of success?) Most replies mirrored the earlier rejections, but two requested the full manuscript. Off they went, in four-inch thick Kinkos boxes. The most charitable reply was: though there are some interesting ideas and themes, we regret that we are unable to commit to this project. Thank you for thinking of us.

It felt like a stab to my heart rather than the small nicks of the earlier short-story rejections. This novel took a YEAR to write, but was dismissed as summarily as my previous work. I’ll admit, this rocked my confidence for a good long while. I briefly considered self-publishing—not to disparage those who chose that route—but I wanted the acknowledgment of a worthwhile effort that comes from traditional publication.

Fast forward through several decades, which included some college in my early thirties, and major life changes. I now lived in West Virginia, and I was married to a wonderful man who encouraged me to keep trying. I wrote two more novels—Stormy Weather, an apocalyptic thriller, and Grady’s Mill, a small-town murder/suspense—both of which were gay-centric and both of which were rejected. I felt gutted, but the dream still pulsed in my heart.

And then I wrote a novel that felt different, a folk-horror/suspense, the story of a mother and her gay son desperately trying to flee her murderous husband, only to become trapped with him in a tiny cabin, in a snowstorm. This one held a weight that seemed on a higher level. But the query responses were stuck in a rut, this time from agents. Not a good fit for our list. It’s a No from us, etc., and the worst possible, no reply at all.

I’d sent over one hundred queries. All were rejected. My confidence evaporated. I resigned myself to the glaring fact that producing something worthwhile, something eagerly devoured by hungry readers, was beyond my capabilities. I still wrote, but I grudgingly understood it would be for my own satisfaction alone. I still enjoyed reading—usually a hundred or so books a year. I was fifty-nine and happily married. I’d built our house myself. We had two dogs and two cats who filled me with joy. And I had my health—so far, my kidney cancer has not returned.

After indulging my disappointment, I decided to reexamine my writing. I mean, I tore it to pieces—editorially speaking. And in those pieces, I discovered the sparkle of the story buried behind the cluttered exposition. It was an enlightening moment. I gleefully set about murdering my darlings left and right—an apt metaphor because I’d really thought they were special, until closer examination revealed them for the pace-halting, roadblocks they were.

At about this time, an author friend who’d read my novel suggested that I try a smaller publishing house. Were there still publishers accepting manuscripts directly from authors? Yes. He had one in mind that specialized in publishing LGBTQ+ authors. Okay, I thought, one more try. I queried them. They requested the first three chapters within a few days, and then the entire manuscript. One week later, I received the response that had eluded me for thirty-six years.

We are interested in publishing your book.

My husband whooped and cheered. I sat quietly waiting for the tingling rush of adrenaline to run its course through my body. I wiped the tears from my eyes, smiled, and said something inane, like, “I’m going to be a published author.” But oh, it was a sweet moment!

Next came months of editing, cover design, and blurb requests from established authors—two accepted: Alma Katsu—a favorite writer of mine, and Eric Peterson—the awesome author friend mentioned above. A few months after my sixtieth birthday—a year after being accepted—my novel, Desperate Measures, was published by Rattling Good Yarns Press in September 2024. The sensation of opening my box of author copies felt surreal, like Christmas—only better. There it was, my first book, in print! A sublime sense of satisfaction is the best way I can describe it.

A year later, I’m working on a sequel to Desperate Measures, and also a full-on horror novel set in Alaska. My journey took a mind-numbing, circuitous route, but the end result has been very much worth it. I’m a published author!