I didn’t used to like writing. In school, I hated having to write anything except math. Okay, so I’m one of those guys who takes to math. And science, for that matter. But writing, I wrote it off as a waste of time. Even in high school when my English teacher assigned us books to read and reports to write I didn’t look forward to it. Oh, I would make a feeble attempt to write some kind of gibberish that the teacher might construe as an honest effort, and it worked most of the time. But I never really made a hearty effort to write something good.

Well, I grew up and what do you know? Now I love to write. It all started about ten years ago when I suddenly took a liking to literature. I’m not really sure what brought that on, but it happened. Then I got involved with the newsletter that my company published and I discovered that I could, indeed, write something people wanted to read.

Since then, I began reading in earnest and then I wondered if I could write as well as the authors whose works I was reading. I tried. And tried. I spent weekend mornings on the porch with my coffee reading and writing. It grew on me and I was hooked. The more I wrote, the better I got. So good, in fact, that about three years ago that I pursued publication of my first novel.  It wasn’t until good fortune found me last year that it became a reality.

“Where’s The Ivy?” was published in December, 2011, formally in February, 2012.  I have been working on several other books. My next one I intend to publish is about my experiences in Vietnam. I’ll write more about that, later.

But, there it is. If any of you have enlightening experiences about writing, I would like to know about them.