Sheila Deeth's Page

I was four years old, and couldn't read or write, but I could certainly talk. In fact, I had finally reached the stage where I could talk and other people (besides Mum and my big brother) could understand me. And I had a dream. I wanted to tell stories forever and ever.

I was nearing seven when I finally learned my letters, and now I was dreaming of becoming an author. (Well, I wanted to be a trapeze artist too. With hindsight, it's not clear which dream was the more impossible.)

I was ten when I wrote my first book (safely buried where no one will ever see it again). And the dream lived on.

Somehow I ended up studying math at college, and working with computers. But I wrote in my spare time. Then I had kids and told them stories, helped in school and told stories, taught chess club and told stories, helped in church and told stories... There's a theme here somewhere, or a dream.

I lost my job and started writing the stories down and trying to get published. Maybe I spent too long writing and not long enough sending stuff out. Anyway, four years later I finally decided to self-publish a Christmas gift book... and an Easter one... and some of those long-told kids' stories... and... Well, I'm still dreaming, still hoping someone will like what I've written, still hoping a real publisher will someday come along - probably in a pumpkin coach pulled my mice... pause while I put my Cinderella slippers on...