It’s hard to say exactly when I became interested in writing. It certainly wasn’t in high school. Honestly, I don’t even remember writing much then. What grabbed my attention instead were the mechanics of writing: diagramming sentences, editing grammar, and digging into word origins. Nerdy? Absolutely. But I loved it.
Looking back, I think I turned to writing whenever life threw me off balance—a new job, an argument with my husband, mind-numbing boredom, or that familiar voice whispering, "You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?" Writing gave me control. Through words, I could reclaim a little peace—and maybe sound wiser than I felt.
My first try at writing came after fourteen years of marriage, when I took a beginners' workshop in 1985. The instructor’s feedback felt like magic. Even now, when I need a boost, I pull out that yellowing slip of paper she gave me then: “Okay. You win. So you didn’t read fiction growing up, but you certainly do have the ability to write it. The thing that I’m excited about is that you have given yourself license to take off. You seem uninhibited about trying new effects with detail, dialogue, and narrative.”
I was hooked. Her response to my second story was even better: “If you keep on going like this, you will end up writing for a living. There is a wholeness to your work that is mature beyond a beginners’ group.”
Inspired—and bored stiff at my clerical job—I quit to write full time. It was the perfect setup: quiet mornings, a nice desk, coffee within arm’s reach. What could go wrong? Apparently, everything. The words dried up. It turns out I needed a bit of friction—some real-life messiness—to get the ideas flowing. Without it, my writing felt flat.
Eventually, life took over. Bills needed to be paid, the house needed cleaning, and my characters were left hanging in mid-sentence. I packed away the notebooks and moved on. Now, forty years later, they’re still waiting—and so am I. The house is quieter now. The coffee is still hot. And the stories? Their characters are finally getting restless, waiting to be brought to life.
