I like to think that I got serious about writing sometime during the summer of two thousand twenty-one. I wrote the memoir BREAKING FREE: 45 YEARS IN THE WRONG BODY the year before, thinking it was a once-and-done project. Then, something happened. I came down with the bug, the writing bug, that is. From that moment, I wanted to learn more about writing. Hell, I just wanted to write, and write and write.

So, I took a minute to examine my natural inclinations as a reader. That proved interesting as I knew I had read all genres over the years, yet one genre was always sure to catch my attention; the thriller. I’ve read tons of books. From

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie novels to Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

I love Stephen King, Anne Rice, Gillian Flynn, Thomas Harris, Kathy Reichs, Karin Slaughter, Douglas Preston, and Lee Child. The fact is, I have a rather eclectic taste when it comes to literature. When I was younger, I would treat myself to reading greek classics like Homer’s The Odyssey, The Iliad, and many others.

Here’s the thing, a few weeks ago, I had gotten to the halfway point, this is a subjective estimate since this is my very first novel, and I’m going on what seems to be a ballpark estimate for thrillers. So, once I was where I estimated to be the middle point of the story, I began to slow down, unsure how to proceed with the story. I felt bogged down, uninspired even. I was on a sailboat smack in the doldrums where trade winds converge between the northeast and the southeast. No winds mean no movement when one is equipped with sails. So, it’s a good thing I can paddle.

As I began writing this novel, I was inspired, and ideas of plots and subplots came with little warning, often flooding my mind, much like a tsunami. Then, slowly I got focused, seeing the plot and character arcs develop. It was like being on a ride. All I had to do was follow the inspiration. Unfortunately, the doldrums were waiting, the edits of inspiration seemed to die, and I was left floating on a dead sea.

I waited for my inspiration to reappear, to show up and guide me to the conclusion of my novel. Then, when I realized that I would need to make it happen, that inspiration was not something outside of me but rather the expression of my creativity, I found it again.

I wasn’t finding the right words to continue the story, so I decided to write, write and then write some more. I would fill in the blank sheets and deal with fixing them later. My main objective is to write.

I find it more manageable now. I have a good and cherished friend, a writer, and we do the Zoom thing once a week. We catch up on what’s happening in our respective lives, and she is an excellent listener. I get to share my writings openly. She makes suggestions at times, and overall, I feel liberated from all the doubt I develop as I advance in the story. I have also been fortunate that other authors have helped me. You know who you are.

I try to set loose goals such as word count per week; it is helpful in that I can see my progress. But, mostly, I write with little thought of anything other than discovering what’s in store for my characters.

I write because I need to express myself through the creative process. After a few decades as a paintress, my body developed issues, mainly my drawing hand, and I can no longer hold a brush for more than a few minutes without feeling pain. My eyesight is no longer as sharp, and I no longer feel the joy I once did working in that medium. I needed to make a meaningful change.

I knew that I couldn’t simply cease to be creative. Creativity is as much a part of me as my blood. So, a light came on after deciding to write my memoir and seeing how I could use my imagination through the medium.

Writing is a different medium, yet there are so many similarities between drawing and painting that I soon felt I was born for it.