When people ask how author Loretta Kendall started her writing journey, there is no easy answer to that. Her story begins long before writing ever entered the picture, where she went from struggling student to published author…
I think I was a storyteller long before I ever considered
myself a writer, and my journey to get here was a bumpy one.
I remember from a young age being taught to love and respect
books. I was the only kid in my friend group who had four full shelves of books
in my room that were more prominent than my dolls. Even before I could read, I
was flipping through pages and making up stories in my head. Looking back now,
I think that’s why storytelling came so naturally to me. I had a huge
imagination, and those books screamed to get my story out. It all started from
a little pink bookshelf with rows of stories waiting to be read.
It wasn’t by accident that those books were there, either. My
parents always encouraged education because my father had dyslexia, and like
any parent, he wanted more for us than he was given as a child. He was born just
out of the depression era, where plowing fields and making a living outweighed
attending one-room schoolhouses. Learning disabilities often went undiagnosed,
and he was adamant about not letting his kids fall through the cracks.
With him not being able to read, well into his adult years,
graduating from high school became a big deal in our household. So much so that
my mother would challenge me to learn a new word with her and use it throughout
the day to build our vocabulary. Little did I know then that she was teaching
me in creative ways I didn’t get in school. I still laugh thinking about how friends
teased me for using the big words.
Looking back, school was never easy for me. I was placed in special
learning classes for reading early on. I loved books and was reading at a high
school level by fifth grade, but being shy often outweighed my ability to show
that, so they assumed I couldn’t read properly. Honestly, I was scared of my
teacher. I could read, just not out loud to her. I struggled through most of
school in my classes, which still affects me as a writer today.
One memory that stuck with me was when the elementary school
librarian refused to let me check out Alice in Wonderland because my second-grade
teacher told her it was too big a book for me. I felt that the teacher held me
back in ways that later hindered my path in education, including embarrassing
me when I was too shy to read in front of the class. To this day, I don’t know
if it was a learning disability or the fear she instilled in me at such a young
age. I remember loving books so much and feeling completely crushed by that
moment.
Ironically, I still haven't read Alice in Wonderland.
Now, I'm a published author, and to get there wasn’t easy
after my education took me down a road that maybe should have been. It took
teaching myself all over again in ways I could understand, and a structure that
made it easy for me to create the final product. I suppose the experience in
that library stayed with me because it taught me early on how easy it is for
people to place limits on others based on labels. But I wasn’t willing to back
down. That moment was probably what pushed me even more to prove that mean ol’
teacher wrong.
You might ask how all that made me a writer and not just
bitter. I think it came from stubbornness, and my love for those rows of books that
were always visibly placed in my childhood bedroom. Throughout my childhood, following
that teacher's influence, I told stories to my friends during sleepovers and
later wrote stories back and forth with my best friend in our teenage years
just for fun. Looking back, those stories probably helped shape my voice as a
writer more than anything else ever could.
Though that wasn’t the thing that really sparked my interest
in writing. In 9th grade, I met Ms. Wilson, the English teacher with a heart of
gold who truly encouraged me to write. She understood I was struggling and
would offer time after class to help in whatever way I needed. In addition, she
would have me write short stories for extra credit because she enjoyed reading
them so much. I wasn’t doing so well in other aspects of her class, so pushing
my strengths was the key. I still remember how much her encouragement meant to
me at that age. Sometimes, all it takes is one person seeing something in you
before you can fully see it yourself.
My first published piece of writing was a poem written in my
freshman year of high school that was featured in the school literary magazine,
which she had encouraged me to submit. I didn't know then that years later I
would go on to publish my fortieth romance novel, become the former
editor-in-chief of a fashion and beauty magazine, appear on bestseller lists
multiple times, win awards, and write for numerous articles and publications.
I didn't go to college for literature or have a degree in
writing. I admit fully to the readers of my struggles as a writer regarding the
technical side. Even through those struggles, the characters are still
chattering in my ear to get their stories told, so I’ll share them freely and
keep learning as I go.
For me, success doesn’t come down to how many books I have
in publication or book community clout. It was the journey that got me here,
and the people who encouraged me along the way.
In celebration of overcoming adversity, I'll finally buy
myself that copy of Alice in Wonderland to celebrate my 40th
release, Running with the Orc. And take those years of struggle as a reminder
of how far I’ve come.
Running with the Orc: Excerpt 1
The club was packed, the drinks were flowing, and Daisy LaRue was about to go on stage for another night of comedy burlesque when…
“You have to see who’s here. I can’t believe it. He came. He never comes into the camp unless someone trips the alarm leading to the portal.”
I watched the woman from my world, Claudette, curiously. “Who?”
She didn’t respond, but quickly pushed me to the edge of the stage to look out through the curtain. When I caught a glimpse of what was sitting in VIP, the gasp that came from my lips rattled me, and I quickly slammed the curtain shut. With a heavy breath, I pinned myself to the nearby wall and hoped like hell he didn’t see me. My heart was racing, and I couldn’t believe he was here. I hoped I would never have to lay eyes on that man again—that stupid, green-skinned, gorgeous man.
“Bramwell Gronk,” I breathed, barely able to contain the sudden fear that fell over me.
“The leading commander of the orc army,” she noted with a little too much cheery swoon for my liking. “His warlord horde was the group who brought you back here… twice… no, three times… Wasn’t it? The warlords typically don’t—”
“Show up unless hunting us when we try to escape to reach the passage. Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.”
Damn her for stating the obvious. The last time we met, he swore he’d kill me if he ever saw my face again. His words were I’ll take care of you. Yeah, I’m sure he would, in a dark, primal ritual where he’d rip my heart from my chest as his men bellowed war chants to the rhythm of my still beating thumper, right before he took a big bite to claim his barbarian hierarchy.
That gnarly scar on his face from forehead to jawline is the reason I landed in an oubliette for two weeks… Or was it a month?
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