A Caribbean transplant, Avril now lives in Brooklyn, N.Y with a tolerant Spousal Equivalent. Together they raise an eccentric daughter who loves reading and school (not so much school anymore). Avril’s earliest memories of reading revolve around discussing plot points of Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys with an equally book-minded mother
Always in love with the written word, Avril finally decided to do the writing in August of ’09 and never looked back. Spicy love scenes, delicious heroes, and wicked women burn up the pages of Avril’s stories, but there’ll always be a happy ending; Av remains a believer of love in all its forms.
In grade school I had the most gorgeous male teacher. Mr. Forrester. He was tall and muscular with the most blinding smile. At eleven/twelve I recognized his allure and basked in his attentions whenever it fell on me.
To this day, Mr. Forrester remains one of less than a handful of teachers in my life who stick out. But, while I remember his beauty, I remember more his encouragement with my writing.
|Buy the book|
I didn’t really care for that; I preferred being invisible, being all by my lonesome. Eyes on me isn’t a pleasant feeling, not in my book. Still, I did it, helped other kids with studying Spelling and English. I did it because Mr. Forrester asked it of me and I liked that he saw where my interest were.
Math was torture, but English was it for me.
I excelled at essays. Sailed through them with the greatest of ease. I loved writing them. One day Mr. Forrester asked me to write a short story for a fair the school was having. That terrified the crap out of me. Everyone would see it; other students, teachers and the public at large who’d be in attendance. I said no.
I was twelve.
Mr. Forrester sent a note home with me for my mother, explaining what he’d asked of me and my refusal. My mother thought I should do it, she felt I could. That I was good enough. Better even.
Those two people saw me. I felt that, I knew that, but putting myself out there for everyone else didn’t sit well. I was a bullied kid already for being too bookish, too poor, too not popular, I couldn’t take the ridicule of opening myself up, showing my heart. Because that was what writing was, showing my inner-most self.
In the end, with Mr. Forrester and my mother backing me, I wrote a short story, a nice suspense about Mr. Gomez and the mysterious footprints outside his house. Can’t remember how that story ended, but it was a hit and afterwards Mr. Forrester would pull me and my mother aside to discuss my future. I should tell stories, he told us. I’m good and passionate about writing.
Nice words to be sure, but life has a way of getting in the way of plans. It’s funny that way. Life happened to me and I gave up on the writing thing for more practical pursuits.
Now here I am.
Funny how life happens when we least expect it.
Leave me a comment below, I'll be stopping by to chat with readers.