Melissa Kean

Something happens as we grow older. Something secretive, known only to ourselves...

A pulse within our soul begins to makes itself known. A beat that sings the very reason for our existence.

Over the past few years, that secret pulse within my spirit is no longer a faint, intuitively heard sound; it is music. Loud music. Music I can dance to, rejoice in.

 

I know the reason for my existence—or, at the very least, one of the reasons.

 

I am here to write.

 

I am here to create stories that reach people, move people. Stories that stir a person's spirit song until it hums: Why are you here in this world?

 

Thank you for expressing interest in my writing. You keep me inspired, keep me singing and dancing to music only I can hear.

 

I only hope I can inspire you in some small way.

 

 

Melissa Kean

 

 

 

 

 

My Life as a Budding Author

 

 

 

 

I was born and raised in Land O’ Lakes, a small town along the central coast of Florida, about thirty miles from the Gulf of Mexico. It'd always been a beautiful place, rich with gentle green pastures and quiet one-lane streets. But Land O' Lakes was not destined to remain the small, sleepy town it'd been in my early childhood. It was fated to be cut through with subdivisions, family-owned stores severed in half to accommodate widening streets.

 

But I was lucky.

 

My house was settled in one of the oldest parts of town. A little area steeped in Floridian history: Dupree Gardens. Here, my family remained beyond the construction. Here, exotic flowers dripped from palm trees, the forest was teeming with wildlife, and the scent of Orange Blossoms was ripe in the air. Because of this, my time was spent primarily outside. I was either roaming the forest or secretly wandering the nearby orange groves, sucking the juice from stolen oranges beneath the sun. It was not long before I took a notebook with me on one of my excursions and began to write.

 

 

 

 

In high school, my writing received its first bit of recognition that did not come from the loving, but biased hearts of my parents. My tenth grade English teacher—I will never forget her—had the whole class write short stories as a project. She stunned me when, toward the end of class one day, she gathered everyone's attention.

 

"Excuse me, everyone. Remain in your seats. I have something I would like to read aloud." To me, she asked, "Melissa, would it be all right if I shared this with the class?"

 

She was holding my story in her hands.

 

I remember the distinct feeling of my heart leaping painfully into my throat. Despite that, I nodded.

 

By the time she finished reading my story to my peers, my face was on fire. I felt exposed, vulnerable. After class, she pulled me aside and apologized. She wanted to assure me there was no reason to be embarrassed. What she did not know was that, yes, I was embarrassed, but I was also dizzy with pride.

 

She quickly convinced me to submit my story into a contest. And I won second place in my school.

 

It was then that I felt my life turn a corner.

 

To this day, my tenth grade teacher has no idea what her acknowledgement of me meant. So, Ms. Smith, wherever you are out there, thank you.

 

 

 

 

In my early twenties, I married my high school sweetheart, Ray, and moved to South Carolina. Over the next few years, we had our first child, a son, and bought our first house.

 

During that time I struggled off and on with a story that I was trying in vain to get out of my head, yet could not feel satisfied with on my computer screen. Discouraged, I gave it up, shoving aside my dream of writing a novel.

 

In 2010, not long after the birth of our second child, a daughter, we agreed our time in the Palmetto State was over; we moved home.

 

Returned at last to the state I knew and loved, I visited my old home. It was changed...yet the same. The house itself was still tucked neatly within the trees and tranquility still reigned—but the sprawling orange groves were gone; two brand new neighborhoods were built in their place. I mourned the loss of that oasis for a while, comforting myself with books.

 

Lots of books.

 

I quickly became close friends with Jane Austen, meandering Pemberley’s halls with Elizabeth Bennet, sighing over Mr. Darcy. I fell in love with the Brontë sisters as I snuck through Thornfield Hall with Jane Eyre, before later crying in the moors alongside Heathcliffe and Cathy. With my mind so full of windswept landscapes, unforgettable heroines and heroes, I decided to sit down with my laptop to try something I had previously failed at:

 

I wanted to write a story of my very own—and finish it.

 

In 2012, I succeeded in the goal I had laid out for myself. And as I typed the final words to Discovering You (a story heavily inspired by Jane Eyre and Beauty and the Beast), I felt full, accomplished. Through Smashwords, a publishing website for independent authors, my first novel was published.

 

In 2015, my dream was realized again with my second novel, Where I Belong. This story was heavily inspired by fate, family, and the power of love--and not only was it a complete joy to write, it was also therapeutic as well.

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And in 2021, my third novel was finally completed. Stay with Me is my ultimate fever dream. Inspired by the dark, romantic whimsy of Beauty and the Beast and The Phantom of the Opera, I was deeply immersed in this tale for years; it was difficult to part with.

 

But thankfully, I will be revisiting that world again in my next book, Run with Me, which is a continuation of The Valenstone Mansion Series, Book Two.

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And now, as I ready myself to close my eyes and dream the dream that will later become my next novel, I feel it is important to express something:

 

I am not perfect. I am young, human, and full of flaws. But in my imperfection, I am beautiful. All in all, I am simply me.

 

Just me.

 

And so to continue to be as true to myself as possible, I must do this one thing indefinitely:

 

 

 

 

Just keep writing