For years, I wrote poetry, legal briefs, and Christmas letters, but never prose (except that one short story in college that was so bad I vowed never to write prose again). But circumstances and people change. I remember exactly what propelled me into writing stories.
In 2003, I had a serious flare-up of an existing thyroid condition. I spent six months in bed and another six months regaining my strength. Often, before drifting off to sleep, I prayed I would wake in the morning. During this time, my life changed in many ways—I became more appreciative of family and friends, of sunlight, of the ability to walk, of grass and birds, of anything that made me laugh.
I also realized I was not 100% happy. I’d been ignoring my creative side for too long. I’d made a lot of progress in my life—overcoming childhood trauma and a failed first marriage. I’d been an excellent mother and provider for my son—home schooling, meeting all his needs–including piano lessons and helping him fulfill his gift of touching people’s souls with music, but somewhere in the process I had neglected my own soul’s needs. For me, writing was like breathing. And I’d been holding my breath too long. Read more