I am officially journaling my words

I've been a writer much of my life. As a young girl I would create bogus magazines for no one in particular. I would write articles and ads for my mag. I loved to illustrate and layout my own designs. I believe I was around 7 when I started writing in earnest. I would share my hand made magazines with my mother, who, a writer in her own right, poured over it with great interest. She wrote an unpublished sci-fi book which was one of her favorite genres. She also wrote articles for her small town newspaper. When I was in 6th grade, I won a writing contest and my mother had an article published in the small newspaper about my win. I was quite proud of my winning essay on my favorite Indiana vacation spot. Not having traveled much, I wrote about a historical town an hour away from where I lived. It was my first delve into the art of adjectives and adverbs. I was hooked and continually honed my skills.
I did well in my college creative writing and journalism classes. My professor and mentor, the late Caroline Dow was a former writer for People magazine. She infused a genuine enthusiasm for the art of prose in her students. She discovered what each individual leaned toward and had them write accordingly. If a boy liked sports, he wrote sports themed articles. I was more abstract and wrote about the meaning of life and such, not a marketable subject. I ended up writing an business article and doing well with it. However, my heart wasn't into business that much. I decided to follow my heart vs. my bank account. And, here I am, a late bloomer but a bloomer nonetheless. I've had my books and poems read and praised by professors and random individuals. They've told me "You should get these published. These are really good. That one was ok but this one is great!" I took them at their word and sought the ever elusive, always dominate agent. It seems the literary agent doesn't want to read your work. They prefer to be queried with an excerpt here or there. They decide, simply on said query whether you are a match for them or not. It's not easy, to say the least, to portray your work in a single page letter. There are so many do's and don'ts, when composing the "look at my writing" letter it boggles the mind. Not one to be discouraged, I sent some of my work to various agents. I do have a limerick published in the book "On To Mars 2". It is a compilation of space enthusiast's works. It is written by and for, specifically, Mars Society geeks, which I happen to be one of. So, it wasn't difficult to be noticed by those who share my enthusiasm for space exploration. The problem is that I have written allegories, poetry and children's books on a variety of other topics too. I am confident that I will find my soul-agent out there. Hey, I found my soul-mate, which is infinitely more difficult to do, so my soul-agent is surely waiting to glance upon my insightful fiction.
I am an eclectic writer. I have written children's chapter books, adult allegory fiction and poetry. My themes include fantasy, humor, darkness, etc. Whatever the moment brings me. My poetry is as diverse as all my writing is. I follow no one set of rules. I feel and I compose. I have amassed a decent portfolio which is in no way complete, nor will it ever be.
Some of the many authors I admire come from all genres as well. A partial list must include, Charles Dickens (what can I say that hasn't already been said) Jane Austen (Ah, the Victorian storyline) Louisa May Alcott (ditto) Neil Gaiman (Wonderful teller of tales and animal lover) Lewis Carrol (from fantasy to nonsense he does it with skill) Edgar Allen Poe (darkness illuminated) Mark Twain (an everyday hero) William Shakespeare (the bard, to be or not to be, that is the question) I could go on and on but must end here or else I would never get any sleep.
An artistic writer does so because they are compelled. Some invisible force pulls the hand to paper and infuses said paper with words, glorious words. So, here I am, an author who is drawn to paper. I leave my mark, how ever infinitesimal onto this rotating orb of souls.