It was September 2006. I sat at a blank computer screen. The novel was in me, I just didn't know it yet. I started writing a story about myself. I was seeking answers to mistakes that I have repeated over the course of my life.
I began typing, remembering the feelings of starting high school. But the details eluded me. I had a vague sense at best of what happened when I was fourteen. I told myself that it did not matter. This book was for my eyes only. This story would be read by no one.
Within two weeks, I met another mom at my kickboxing class. We began talking. My heart froze when she told me she was a writer. Did she know about the writing class that had been advertised at the Y? As fate would have it, yes she did. She was already in it.
I began going to that class in October and have been in it ever since.
Over time, something happened to my writing. Suddenly, I found that making things up, while using real emotion was much more fun and interesting. Other people in my class actually wanted to hear what I wrote.
The evolution of me as a writer began that month, as did the evolution of my story. It began taking shape as a real novel. Words that might be good enough to share with the rest of the world began flowing out of my heart and head.
Something was changing and I didn't know if I was ready for it. I still don't, but I'm willing to ride it out and see where it goes.