I’ve lost track of all the short stories, novels and novelettes I’ve written since I made the shift from drawing pictures to making pictures out of words around the age of six. In between going to school and college, socializing with friends, and working various pay-the-rent jobs, I wrote lots. One short story was published in my college’s magazine, a few novels from then now live in a file cabinet, some are on my computers’ hard drives and memory devices, many others went out with the trash at various residences. Once I started teaching, my free time was gobbled up by the children, at home and at school, and the demands of teaching. (You wouldn’t believe me, so I won’t even try.) As a result, I wrote little fiction during those years.
After I retired from teaching, I wrote four novels in four years, getting better with each one. But writing novels is so time-consuming! For me, anyway. Every waking minute seems to be spent thinking about it or working on it. Despite the pleasure of writing stories about made-up people and places, I missed being with real-life people and working outside. So I switched to short stories, mostly mysteries that have a taste of history, because that’s what I love to read. Besides, as I get older, I find living with other people’s problems, 24/7, for longer than a month, both stressful and annoying. I’ve got my own problems, for heaven’s sake. Like how to start my next story…
Murder at the Alcazar: Fourteen-year-old Lydia Parker meets up with murder in 1907 St. Augustine at one of Henry Flagler’s hotels.
The Right Touch: A retired history teacher steps into the past, witnesses a crime, and has to act fast to save a young friend in the present from the consequences.
Working on it…