PERMISSION TO BE

Once the family and I landed in our final destination on the west coast I knew the marriage was on rocks as big as those at Acadia National Park's Thunder Hole, a favorite tourist location near Bar Harbor, Maine. For viewers on the west coast, think Point Dume in Southern California.

So I knew it was essential to get back to college, get a degree - a couple as a matter of fact - and get a job that would enable me to support the two children I was mother to at that point. The problem was I didn't know if the local university would allow a girl to enroll with a Police Science major. (You picked up on the word girl there, didn't you.) I went so far as to ask if the university would allow a girl to..... How times (and I) have changed. :-) BTW, Police Science is now known as Criminal Justice and that small department is now an entire Division at that university.

Even though there were female students in that particular department, there weren't many so it was easy to stand out. Carrying as many as 24 units a semester, when 15 is considered a full load, I worked as hard and as fast as I could toward that Bachelor's degree. Studying, still being a mom and a sort-of wife, active in certain special events within the university's academic world - LIFE was a push at full-speed ahead.

Thanks to the east coast college credits I'd been able to transfer, graduation came within two years. That was immediately followed by a full-time position within local law enforcement, the desired Divorce Decree and enrollment in the university's Master's Program. (And on-going "mom" duties with two children who missed their dad.)

I can't say life or times were easy at that point. Nor can I say I'd recommend any of it for anyone else. What I can say is that was the beginning of the phase in my life when I stopped asking if I could be accepted. I just made up my mind I was going to be the best at whatever I set out to be, do the best at whatever was in front of me, and move forward with My Life.

So, why this blog? Because now that I have completed a rather long and sometimes challenging career in law enforcement - criminal justice, (the legal system as one detective called it when we were waiting to testify in the same courtroom regarding the same individual) and am retired, I've started being a Writer of Fiction Novels. But I can't write the stories I have to tell under my real name for some pretty good reasons, per the advice I received from a successful woman writer.

Seems the stories I write tend to generate "pen pal" letters from prison inmates who, she said, will want me to tell Their Story. I've been in some pretty big and dangerous prisons and worked with some rather large inmates already. I've heard and seen enough of their stories. I'd just as soon not have to deal up close and personal with that mail if it can be avoided.

It also seems, writing under my "given name" is just asking to be stalked. Been there. I'd just as soon avoid repeating that experience.

So a nom de plume (pen name) is what was needed. But how does one pick such a name? It's not like opening a Baby Name book or picking up the name of some flamboyant former actress. I needed a name I could personally identify with. Bring in the family!

There was quite a bit of discussion over the topic of my "writer name." The children, now grown with children of their own wanted me to stick with my name. "You've worked hard for acceptance of that name," said one. "Heck, it's where all your experience and credentials are," said the other.

But then I pointed out the problems I could expect - maybe they could expect - IF I ever get published. And they already know some of the "stories" I want to tell. "Better find another name," they agreed.

Came forth a sibling with a suggestion. Seems in the family's way-back-when history, about the time and place of Paul Revere, a rather "sporting" member of the family lineage was somewhat of a horse thief. Apparently he wasn't a very good horse thief because he got caught. Lucky he didn't get hanged. Must have had that experience more than once because he got himself "exported" as it turned out. Kicked right out of these bedding colonies.

Being the crafty devil that he was (or maybe determined to be an American), he snuck right back in by way of Canada. (Seems we've had a problem with leaky borders for some time.) And this distant relative's last name was Fairbanks.

I liked it. Seems appropriate to have a retired cop-type person take on the name of a rather nefarious but loyal kinfolk. Now, there was just the problem of a first name.

My dad's name was Glenn, and I have some fond memories of him from times when I was a small child. So, Glenna was the choice.

Now "I" can go undercover to write the stories of characters and exploits, both heroic, shameful and down right funny in only the way life-and-death situations sometimes turn out to be funny. Perhaps, if I tell the stories right, readers will ask themselves how justice is issued when the truth is harder to find than fingerprints in a dust storm. But most of all, I want to take my readers behind the walls of their local police or sheriff's offices, inside the cells of maximum-security prisons, and inside the hearts and minds of people who know what it is to stand between life and death because it's their job.