Me, write a novel? You’re kidding, right? I’ve heard authors say they’ve been writing since they held their first crayon in their chubby little fingers. Other than chubby little fingers, I wasn’t that child.

In elementary school, I hated those book report lists up on the bulletin board. You know, the ones with rows and rows of jewel-toned stars showing how many book reports each student had completed. My row lacked stars. If I had earned five by Christmas, it was a good year. By Easter, I’d felt the pressure of not getting the coveted “A” so grabbed the skinniest, biggest-print, books off the shelves I could find and did my level best to earn that grade. Fifteen gold stars in a row were tantalizingly pretty but that “A” got me out of sorting socks and doing dishes…the penalty my parents dealt out more times than I care to remember.

Raised on the South Dakota Great Plains, I was too busy roaming the rural countryside creating my own adventures to be saddled with, of all things, a book. My favorite pastime was pretending to be Sacajawea and exploring all the local creek-beds and pastures, building forts, and waging imaginary war against invading pirates or Vikings. Of course, I was the heroine and my team always won.

Upon earning a degree, entering the traditional work force and raising a family, my world seemed complete…until a raging blizzard knocked out our electricity which meant no television for the kids…and me, the adventure queen, trapped indoors for ten miserably long days with my two toddler age sons who were just as hungry for the outdoors as me. I’d never suffered cabin fever in my life so when my next door neighbor shoved a Romance novel in my face—she saved my sanity, and I discovered my new joy. I read every romantic escapade I could get my hands on but my thirst for adventure soon craved more than those wonderful authors provided.