No Turning Back

When I was eight, my friends and I used to dare each other to ride our bikes past a rundown house at the end of the block. No one ever saw the old lady who lived there. Tales of what went on inside her home were as tall as the weeds that had taken over her yard. Her curtains remained closed at all times, and at night, a single light shown from an upstairs window.

I bet she was an author.

I Googled my name and just for the record, I’m not the jeweler, the Atlanta mode of transportation, or the character in Margaret Craven’s novel, “I Heard the Owl Call My Name.” Yup, Marta Stephens, that one made me smile.

I write crime mystery/suspense and up until a few years ago, my work was something I shared only with family and friends. Close friends. People who love me; in whose eyes I can do no wrong. It was a safe place to be, but a little voice in the back of my head nudged me forward. I expanded my circle to include an amazing group of talented fellow authors -- the real test of endurance -- the best move I’ve made.

My writing has evolved from a pastime, to a passion, and now an addiction. I can’t go more than a few hours without hitting the keyboard. I must admit to wondering if I have become my neighborhood’s version of the woman who lived in the corner house. Is the light in the window above my front door the only proof to others that I exist? Perhaps down the road, but not today. After all, I’ve been Googled -- exposed to the world, to the scrutiny of public opinion, their questions, and expectations.

Life is grand.