I’ve been asked to say a few words about how my writing adventure began.
I wish I could report a dramatic event which started it all. Really, it was quite prosaic. Having recently retired from thirty years of clinical practice, raising a child as a single parent, and trying to get some sleep, you would think the concept of resting would seem therapeutic. Not a chance. Losing the structure that held my life together left a void to be filled. A new canvas to be covered by a painting. A blank page needing a story. An empty closet waiting for new clothes. When I chose the latter, my daughter suggested that instead of shopping, I should fill blank pages with prose.
“Envision a novel rather than a complete wardrobe,” she said. “Write a book,” she said.
“Sure,” I said, with no forethought.
I had lots of afterthoughts when I faced my first blank page on Word. My prior writing could most politely be described as succinct. Concise. Didactic. Dry is the more truthful description. Medical reports with no fluff or fillers. Two hundred fifty words, double spaced with wide margins. One page.
The ominous cursor blinked once per second, daring me to type the first letter at the top of the seemingly endless expanse of empty space. Write, I told myself. Right, I answered.
The standoff at the Word Corral continued until the thought crossed my mind that this whole idea wasn’t worthy of my time. At that moment, I discovered the trigger for all of my writing. The title. Yes, I know that sounds backwards. Write the story first, then title it. Like most writers do. But I was stunned when that one word opened the floodgates for a cascade of ideas and possibilities. And “Worthy” began to formulate in my mind.
However quirky it seems, this is my modus operandi. And it works for me.