I DIDN’T CHOOSE
TO BE A WRITER
By Tracy Brogan
While on a plane last July, flying home from the Romance Writers of America® conference in Anaheim, California, I sat next to a redneck Texan. I knew he was a redneck because he wore a ten-gallon hat, kept a chaw of tobacco in his mouth for an entire three-hour flight, and because as he settled into his seat, he said, “Howdy. You don’t mind sittin’ next to a redneck, do ya?”
I am not making that up.
He was a fascinating guy, and quite a talker. We covered politics, religion and race relations. I’m sure half the people around us were listening intently to our vivid conversation, even as the other half wished fervently that we would just shut up. We didn’t agree on every point. He told a joke I found racist and I told him so. He thought some of my beliefs were too liberal. But oddly enough, the question he asked which prompted the most thoughtful answer from me was when said, “What made you choose to be a writer?”
I flippantly responded with, “I didn’t choose writing. Writing chose me.”
I think I was trying to be clever and witty. But the truth is… writing did choose me. People often ask, “When did you start writing?” Or, “When did you know you wanted to be a writer?” Or some variation of the question posed by my cowboy friend. For me, that’s like being asked, “When did you decide to be right-handed.” It just always was.
I recall drafting my first short story when I was fourteen and my father was diagnosed with cancer. But even earlier than that, I’d kept a journal full of thoughts and feelings and ideas. I kept journaling for years, right up until the time my first child was born and suddenly both my hands seemed to be busy all the time, and I stopped.
But even when I wasn’t committing the words to paper, or more recently, clacking away on a keyboard, I have always had stories playing out in my head. A song on the radio might trigger a whole novel’s worth of material. I have a black and white photograph of Time’s Square from the 1940’s that prompted another story. Pictures of celebrities, an anecdote told by a friend, it’s all fodder for stories to me. It wasn’t until just recently I realized other people don’t automatically do this. (Wow, they must be so bored!)
The danger, of course, of having ideas always rolling around in my mind is that sometimes I’m so busy imagining what might be, and I forget to appreciate what is. I struggle to stay in moment and be fully present for my kids and my spouse, and sometimes even for the story I’m currently working on. The one with the deadline! It’s much more fun to brainstorm new ideas than wrestle with an uncooperative GMC or a sagging story arc bogging down the work-in-progress on my screen.
But focus I must. Because writing has chosen me and that’s a calling I cannot ignore. I am incredibly fortunate to have a job I love. But it’s still a job. And right now, I’d better get back to work!
Amazon
Barnes & Noble
Commanded by his king, Myles Campbell is no more willing than his reluctant bride. Still, she is a rare beauty, passionate enough to warm even the coldest marriage bed. Buy Myles quickly realizes Fiona Sinclair is no common wench. She has a warrior’s spirit and a fierce pride that only a fool would try to tame. And Myles Campbell is no fool. Their marriage was meant to unite warring clans. They never imagined it would ignite a once-in-a-lifetime love…
Fiona Sinclair could not reconcile the irony of nature’s twisted humor. For today of all wretched days the sky should be burdened with clouds as dark and dismal as her mood. But the morning dawned soft and fair, mild as a Highland calf, and she knew that God himself mocked her. At any moment, Myles Campbell and his father, the Earl of Argyll, would pass through the gates of Sinclair Hall, unwelcome, yet unhindered by her clan. Soon after that, she must stand upon the chapel steps and marry a man she had never met, and yet had hated for all of her life.
Through her narrow bedchamber window, sounds from the bailey filtered up. The smithy’s hammer tapped a mellow cadence as if this day were just like any other. Perhaps he shaped a horseshoe or a pointed pike. She smiled at the latter and imaged the heaviness of that same pike in her hand. Oh, that she had the courage to plunge it deep into the earl’s heart, if indeed he had one.
She rose from the threadbare cushion on the bench and moved without purpose toward the stone fireplace. A low fire burned, warding off the spring morning’s chill. From habit, Fiona slipped her hand into the leather pouch around her waist. She squeezed tight the silver brooch inside, its design and inscription etched as clearly in her memory as on the pin itself. A boar’s head, symbol of Clan Campbell, with words chosen by the king himself.
To Cedric Campbell, a true friend is worth a king’s ransom. James V.
The brooch had been a gift to the Campbell chief, the man about to become her father-in-law. But he had left it behind nearly seven years earlier, pierced into the flesh of Fiona’s mother so that all the world might know he had dishonored her. The priest found Aislinn Sinclair’s lifeless body in a secluded glen outside the village, stripped bare and broken, marked by Cedric’s lust and spite. Thus a feud, long simmering at the edges, boiled over.
But today the king thought to put an end to it with this farce of a marriage between a Sinclair lass and a Campbell son. It would not work.
Fiona paced to the window, restless and melancholy. She leaned out to breathe fresh spring air, hoping it might lighten her spirits. The too-sweet scent of hyacinth clung to the breeze, along with the ever-present brine of Moray Firth. Along the west curtain wall, more hammering sounded as masons worked to bolster the steps leading to the main keep. As if precarious stairs alone might halt the Campbell men from gaining entrance. But nothing would. Her fate as a Campbell bride had been declared the very day she drew in her first breath, and sealed when her father blew out his last.
About the Author
Tracy Brogan is a two-time RWA Golden Heart finalist who writes funny contemporary stories about ordinary people finding extraordinary love, and also stirring historical romance full of political intrigue, damsels causing distress, and the occasional man in a kilt. Her first two books, CRAZY LITTLE THING, and HIGHLAND SURRENDER both earned a 4-Star review from RT magazine and have hit the Amazon Best Selling Books list.
Tracy lives in Michigan with her bemused husband, her perpetually exasperated children, and two dogs, who would probably behave better if they could understand sarcasm.
