“Dad. Look at me. I can fly.”

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I have a cartoon taped to my rolltop.  It’s a good example of the tribulations of a newbie writer.  A publishing editor sits behind a sturdy desk, gripping a thick manuscript.  He’s smiling at the author sitting across from him and says, “We loved all the words in your manuscript, but we were wondering if you could put them in a completely different order.”

Yes, I am a newbie writer.  However, I got an amazing phone call last week.  The kind of news that had me popping the cork on a bottle of Domaine Chandone, removing a crystal champagne flute, and calling my father in Colorado.  My father told me at a young age there wasn’t anything beyond my grasp if I wanted it badly enough. (It was one of those talks you give your children when they excel in physical education, but lack interest in the three R’s)  I was one of those smart mouthed kids that had to have the last word.  I smiled up at my father and said, “Okay. I want to fly like a bird.” My father nodded and replied, “Believe in yourself and everything is possible.”  Why was I wasting my time walking when I could fly?  I shared my newfound information with my older sister, Pam.  We raced up the back stairs, crawled out our bedroom window, landed on the roof of our two-storey Victorian, and surveyed the roof line.  We weren’t stupid.  If planes needed a runway before takeoff, we would, too.  I began furiously flapping my arms.  My stellar grades in physical education were about to pay off.  “Let’s fly,” I said, glancing at my sister with her arms at her side.  Why didn’t my sister know the basics of human flight?  “You go first.  I’ll be behind you,” Pam said.  What?  The sister I knew would never let me have the honor of the first human to fly with nothing but sheer willpower.  “Wait a minute,” I said.  “I thought you’d go first.  You’re the oldest and do everything before me.”  We looked at each other and both knew in an instant that neither one of us wanted to fly badly enough to take the first leap.

I’m now older than my father was when he told me I could fly.  He didn’t lie.  Last week I got a call from amazing literary agent Victoria Lea at Aponte Literary.  She liked my offbeat/quirky manuscript and wanted to represent me.  I flew on Sept. 18, 2012 and my feet have yet to touch the ground.  Please click on the Aponte Literary website. http://aponteliterary.com/  It provides excellent information for writers.

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About Mitzi McColley Sorensen

Mitzi McColley Sorensen grew up surrounded by the Black Hills in Hot Springs, South Dakota. Her father was a second generation funeral director. Death was as much a part of her everyday life as breathing. She attributes her quirky sense of humor, viewing life as a gift, and placing family first to her upbringing. After attending Northern State College in South Dakota, she headed west with her husband to live with her beloved grandmother who was suffering with Alzheimer’s. They stayed in California where they raised three daughters and a son. For the past twenty-eight years, Petaluma, California has been her home where rolling vineyards replaced the majestic views of Mt. Rushmore. Working her way up the ranks in a pharmacy, Mitzi learned that the customer was always right, the benefits of most drugs outweighed the possible side effects, and that her male clients mellowed with age. Mitzi befriended an individual that experienced synesthesia in her everyday life. Although the main character in THE TASTE OF ORANGE is fictional, her symptoms mirror that of her friend’s. Retired after twenty plus years, Mitzi enjoys writing novels, traveling, reading, welding, and golfing with her husband, Mark, even though she yells fore more often than scoring a par four. She keeps in shape by catching lizards and snakes with her nine grandsons and three granddaughters.

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