I'm an Author?

I never thought I would write anything but grocery shopping lists, letters, and the occasional postcards. When I was a little girl with long blonde hair in a neat ponytail, I was convinced I would grow up to be a ballerina. I lost that conviction at the age of twelve, which is when I accompanied a horse-crazy classmate to her stable and fell in love with a temperamental chestnut Anglo-Arab called Stradivarius. During my years with Stradivarius, I never gave a thought to what I wanted to do in life. My life revolved around him. If you would have asked me back then, the likelihood of me becoming an author was as likely as Carrot Top running for President… and winning. But here I am, calling myself an author right here on this blog. I’m not used to it yet. Saying the words, “I’m an author” aloud to another person makes me feel like an impostor. Danielle Steel, Stephen King, Nora Roberts and John Grisham are authors. But me? I’m just a woman who enjoys living on a Greek island by day and someone who jots down some (usually esoteric) ideas at night.