In 1982, after long considering the possibilities that I could, I purchased an old Royal typewriter at a garage sale for three buck with the missing letter “A” and sat down to try my hand at writing a novel. 
Those first thirty pages, as with any of my following novels were a breeze. I floated through them by the time spring was in full bloom. The following 170 pages took the next twelve years.
It was a slow progression, lots of starts and stops, with months of down time. Without letting anyone know what I was doing, I slowly plodded my way through the never-ending project until one day, almost by surprise, I was finished.
The momentum of completing that first book gave me permission to tell my friends what I had done and inspired me to start on my next novel with a more defined determination to write one page a day no matter what.
