When I turned 30, I had a little freak-out. I always expected I would have written at least one book before I turned 30, and, well, I failed. So in November 2005, I wrote a little something called "Thirty." I wrote it in 30 days, when I was 30, and it was about the wacky world of pharmacy. It really isn't that boring - it was kind of fiction/nonfiction and focused on the types of crazy people who come into retail pharmacy every single day.
The next year, spurred by the recent death of my grandfather, I wrote "The Christmas Room." That one was a little too personal to share with anyone, but it was a labor of love for me, as well as being so cathartic.
After that, my passion for book-writing died. I tried another one the next year, but it was more of a collection of jumbled words and little coherence than anything else, so I quietly closed the door on that chapter of my life.
Until last night. I felt tired, and Bill had to get up early too, so we went to bed. Except, I couldn't sleep. A single line kept running through my head, and this urgent insistence from my inner voice telling me that it had to go in my book. What the hell, I thought. I am so not writing a book. I have plenty of other crap going on.
But, that voice. And it wouldn't stop. Then another thought, a plot point, popped into my head too, and stayed there, ringing like a bell every time I tried to find sleep.
Rolling over and grabbing my phone, I explained to Bill that I had to write this down or it would undoubtedly be lost in the morning.
I ended up writing a lot. I'm at 2400 words so far, and the story is spinning itself together in my mind and flowing out through my fingers in a way that I thought was lost to me forever.
Holy cow, I might be writing a book. This one is different in that it truly is fiction. I have no idea where the plot is coming from, or how it popped into my head. I only know I can't ignore it.
I will keep you posted on its progress.
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