Dare I even think about the most important words ever written or spoken? Oh, yes, I dare.
“Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.”
Nay sayers may be thinking, “What’s wrong with you? At your age? How can you believe in a jolly, fat man in a red suit, who passes gifts out one day a year, when we all know he’s not real!”
Is Santa a part of your life, other than at Christmas? Is Santa a fraud, except during the holidays, when we all have our hands out, expecting beautifully wrapped presents, unopened liquor bottles and fudge?
Santa Claus is very real, every day of the year, children of all ages. The gifts I receive daily come from the big man in red, whether you believe in him or not.
My family is the gift that keeps giving daily. They’re always in my subconscious, but I’m one of seven guilt ridden Irish Catholic children, and we all know what that means…I’m a recovering Catholic.
My mother died at fifty-three from an asthma attack. She never smoked a day in her life. The simple fact that she survived until eight days before my twentieth birthday, while tragic, was also a gift. I had her in my life for almost twenty years!
I never fell into addiction, other than chocolate. Not being dependent on substances is one of the best gifts I could have ever given myself. I have always chosen a different road than the one with alcohol and drug-filled potholes. I am truly grateful for that gift.
My identical twin sister and I have always had a passion for horses. Where did that gift come from at two years old? We’d never even been near a horse, let alone seen one, but this gift, which we both still share, makes me believe in reincarnation. How does a two-year-old know anything about equines? Somehow, we did.
Our horse craziness was the talk of the family.
One of my older sisters told me that not only did we each have a stick horse that we fed carrots to twice a day, but we tucked them into bed and slept with them each night. We’d be awoken the next morning, arms wrapped tightly around our horses. We were protecting them from monsters, or even worse, rustlers, who might come in the night and steal them!
What kind of cowgirl lets her best friend in the world get stolen in the dark of the night? Not us!
My mother was smart to a fault. She realized early on that our horse obsession wasn’t going to go away. She bought a Wonder Horse. Her intent was to teach us to share. Our intent was to get as much time in the saddle as we could.
We were forced to take turns riding every single day. When the timer in the kitchen went off, the one riding had to get out of the saddle or get yanked off and spanked. The other cowgirl in training would then mount up and ride the range of her imagination.
My twin and I rode seven days a week. On Sundays, sitting in mass, we’d fidget, sometimes fighting in the pew, thinking about who was going to get out of the station wagon first when we got home, run in the house in our church clothes, take possession of the Wonder Horse, and ride.
Were we cowgirls in another life? I believe we were.
How does this translate into writing a western novel? The thought process, creativity, obsession, started with my stick horse. As soon as I could read, I’d devour every western novel I could get from the school library. Then, I’d move to the next, and the next, implanting in my heart and soul the imagination that I have for writing about something that I live and am passionate about.
I only hope you have passions that move you the way mine move me.
