Today, I received fantastic news from my publisher. They've reviewed my latest children's play and deemed it 'fun, educational, and salable.' They're publishing it, just like my previous four works, and I eagerly await royalties. I'm thrilled and deeply proud—proud of my boundless imagination and my skill in bringing it to life.
Readers often tell me my writing feels vivid, like they're living the stories. That's exactly what I aim for. Few know it started as therapy. As a highly sensitive person (HSP), emotions overwhelm me easily. I'd empty tissue boxes watching Little House on the Prairie, tear up at nature documentaries, avoid war films, and switch channels during predator chases—yet those haunting images linger all day.
My doctor recommended writing it all down. At 17, I poured out poems on worldly injustices; some even aired on Jan van Veen's Candlelight program! I laugh now, but that's the spark. Writing has helped immensely ever since. One confession, though: my grammar isn't perfect.
Perhaps I zoned out in school too often, but I've built a trusted circle to polish my columns flawlessly. Plays are tougher—far beyond one page. I can't ask friends without guilt (or owing them!). Instead, I read drafts five, ten, even fifteen times aloud, slowly, until I dream the lines. Then, spellcheck and my 'Dees and Tees' phone app. Send—and pray.
When my publisher posts it (after their review, I hope), a spotted error devastates me. It's fixed fast, but the sting remains. Kids will love performing it, yet grammar nags. Quitting tempts me, but writing's my addiction and lifeline. I learn from every slip, promise perfection by 80.
Grateful to my friends (dear D and T), I'll share any earnings. Until then, I write on, trusting readers and my sharpening grammar skills.
