I remember the first story I ever wrote. I was sitting at my mustard yellow desk in my bedroom doing my homework. The assignment was simple: use the spelling list words in sentences. I wrote a sentence for the first word, and it prompted a new sentence for the second word, and so on. A story tumbled out, using all the spelling words, about a kid who feels sick while stuck in the outfield during a baseball game. I called down the hall to my mother, “How do you spell ‘diarrhea’?” She looked at what I was doing, wrinkled her nose, and said, “Why don’t you say ‘flu’ instead?” I did, but it didn’t sound right. Who ever heard of getting a sudden attack of the flu? As I debated flu versus diarrhea, it occurred to me that the teacher likely wasn’t looking for a story at all. I ripped the page from my notebook and crumpled it into a ball before writing a dozen bland, unconnected sentences on a fresh sheet.
These days I write stories, both fiction and nonfiction, about women’s lives, relationships, and autism acceptance, although I’m still just as likely to crumple up a page of words.
Click the links to read more about my writing.