Going through the process of publishing a book has been ... and I pause to pick the right word ... amazing... awesome ... exciting .. cool ... spooky.  You pick one.  They all fit.

It all started with my critique group.  I'd been accepted into an invitation-only group and was getting acquainted with everyone.  I'd read whatever piece I brought for the week, sometimes my column, but often something else. My work seemed insignificant, small, maybe even petty. Several other writers were working on their books.

I'd never given much thought to being a book author. Author was a very pretentious word, and I wasn't sure I deserved to call myself by that title. I was busy trying to be a column writer and learning from their critique of my work.

One fine day, and I really don't remember specifically when, I made the decision to try to write a book.  A real, many thousands of words, book.  Once the decision was made, the choice of what to write was already made. In fact, I don't remember ever giving the subject a second thought. I knew what I would write about.

I'd celebrated my 12th birthday earlier in the summer of 1956. It was now late August, and almost time for me to start my Sixth Grade year at Springville School.

When my father opened my bedroom door at 1:30 AM that morning, I could not imagine what he wanted. I also had no way of knowing the events occurring over the next few hours would motivate me to retell the story 57 years later.

What story?  What events?  What happened?  See you all on Thursday.