Three and a half years ago I made a decision that would impact my life in ways I never dreamed possible.
Following shoulder surgery, which was unfortunately unsuccessful, I was forced to reduce my hours at work. As a physiotherapist, more specifically a manual therapist, having healthy and strong upper extremities is a necessity.
With this unexpected windfall of extra time on my hands, I approached my husband with the idea of taking a writing course through our local university.
When he agreed, I found myself signed up for a WRITING FOR CHILDREN course.
Throughout the years, I have knitted, sewn, drawn, painted, thrown pots, and sculpted, the latter being my favourite. But despite being a voracious reader, and lover of words, and writer of stories as a child, not to mention being a frequent composer of eloquent letters to my children’s teachers and coaches, I had never considered writing as a serious occupation.
This class, although a disappointment, stirred something in me. Before I knew it, I was up until the wee hours of the morning, night after night, rushing to get the words that flooded my mind down on paper.
When I wasn’t writing, I was thinking about writing, when I wasn’t thinking about writing, I was dreaming about it. Soon I was completely obsessed.
I wrote my first novel, a middle grade story, which shall remain forever buried deep beneath by desk in a unmarked grave. At first I was ashamed of how bad this story was, but then I realized this was the story I needed to write in order to learn how to write. Through the mistakes I made in this manuscript, I began to hone my craft. Hundreds of short stories and narrative non-fiction pieces, multiple drafts and seven different titles of my manuscript, and millions of words edited later, I now have a complete manuscript that I am proud to call my own.
I’m pretty certain I’m now more obsessed than ever.
As I continue to study, realizing how much I have yet to learn, this obsession will likely continue to expand.
I couldn’t be more excited by the prospect.