I'm a 62-year-old woman who has been retired from working as a court reporter (think small keyboard and fast fingers, not journalism) for a few years. I am handicapped, having been wheelchair bound for the past three years since a failed back surgery left me unable to feel or move my left side from the waist down. Daily I experience chronic pain from my various arthritic joints and have too many autoimmune disorders to shake a stick at. Three times a day I swallow a meal-worthy amount of horse pills.
So enough depressing information. I live alone but for my cat, Pogo, an extremely vocal orange tiger who knows everything about everything. There is nothing he won't voice an opinion on -- and he's usually right.
I spent my life dreaming about owning the kind of set-up the main character in this story owns -- I wonder why? I love all animals and they usually love me in turn. I've spent many years rescuing, fostering, and owning -- or is it being owned by? -- dogs, cats, horses, and parrots. Now residing in public housing, I am restricted to having just one pet. I anticipate in a few decades -- I know, I know --when Pogo crosses the rainbow bridge to join his brethren, I'll rescue a dog. But that's in the future.
This is the first story I've ever written. My home health aide and great friend is an author, and she encouraged me to try writing. I found this to be so much fun! Now I am thinking of a series perhaps with the same handicapped protagonist who runs into ridiculous issues just trying to eat out or go to a doctor's appointment. In fact, just this week the front desk personnel at the hospital ended up yelling at each other, "Call security! Just call security! She insists she can't get through the exit door." I clarified, "I can get through. Your bariatric wheelchair won't fit!" And it wouldn't until security came and opened up the other side of the exit door. Who thinks of these things? Nobody unless you're in this situation.
Please read my story and comment. I am hopeful to learn and maybe write another.,
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