Wanted dead or alive

   Did I say this already? I never WANTED to write a book.
   The words "wanted" and "book" never came together in a sentence. I wanted to write for newspapers. I wanted to write for magazines. I wanted to do something besides teach English. I wanted to star on Broadway. Oh wait, sorry, wrong blog.
   So, I've completed the first draft. I've let a few people read/edit this thing. I've had some glowing reviews already. The retired outdoor page editor, who edited my book, loved the story and said he wanted to read a sequel so did the 17 year-old girl from my "test" audience. Sequel? Really? I'm not finished with the first book yet. They both said it was exciting; they couldn't put it down.
   I am a perfectionist. This blog will likely be read and changed five or six times before I click "post." Therefore, I am returning to my book to give it another look. I've already added some things, and there are things I don't like. It brings me back to the beginning statement. I never wanted to do this.
  Sometimes, though, things just burn inside, and you feel like you have to do it. I've always liked stories. Being from the South, I think that story-telling is in the blood. You can't ask a Georgian a simple question unless you want a back-story before you get the answer. My husband, who was born in Montana, learned this the hard way.  If he asks me what I bought at the grocery store, I have to tell him when I went, where I went, if I saw anyone I knew at the grocery store, what we talked about if I did see someone, and how much money I saved. I have now come to the place where I omit details like what I was wearing at the time and if I forgot to put on makeup. What did I buy? Is that really important? By the time I've told my story, I've already remembered what I've forgotten to buy at the grocery store. Oh well, the grocery store is just down the road. I can go back and tell another story. Sometimes, he only wants to know what's for dinner so the story, I guess, is the entertainment to go along with the meal. After 25 years, he pretends to listen very well.  
    Apparently, I come from a long-line of storytellers. It's in the blood. My mother's father, who was also born in Georgia, was said to have been able to tell tall tales. And I've heard stories about other relatives, long gone uncles and aunts. I know my father's mother wanted to be a writer as well. She may have spent her adult life in Nevada, but she was born in the South, too. Storytelling is in my genes.
   And one day soon, my story will be on shelves.