I wrote a novel a dozen years ago. A copy sits in my filing cabinet. The electronic version follows me through each computer upgrade, ready to spring to life any time I'm ready to resurrect it.
That book was the culmination of nearly two years of anxiety and a lifelong ambition. However, the real pressure was going to be trying to get the darn thing published … which I've still not done yet because I haven't really tried.
The crooked stack of paper still amazes me. How on earth, where on earth did I find the discipline to write 650 pages? My numb fingers could attest to the physical drain, and my swirling brain could vouch for the emotional upheaval.
However, the most taxed portion of my creative being was my heart. It was there where the seeds of a story were planted, unconsciously at first, vigorously by the time “The End” was punched into an overworked keyboard. It all started with the simple thought, “Who am I?”
On the surface, I knew I had always been the short one in the family and had seen the world through fingerprint-smudged eyeglasses since first grade.
I understood most of my emotional makeup, the sense of humor my mother had instilled, the need for perfection my father had implanted. At the same time, I was like them, yet so different. The chemical combination of two can provide some very interesting results.
When this book called upon me to write it, I saw myself as more than the product of a merger of two entities. I knew I was much more, and thus began the fascination with a woman who had died 14 years before I was born, who would influence my life more than I could imagine …
More tomorrow …
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