Updated: Jan 3
I started writing, with the intent of publishing, two years ago. Prior to that, I enjoyed beginning books and short stories, without taking on the arduous task of completing them or editing them. I wasn’t ready to have my inner voice out in the world for others to critique. I always knew I would be a writer SOME DAY.
In my late twenties, I wrote a book about egg donation for children. I had recently donated my eggs to a couple, who conceived a boy, whom I may never meet. Trying to make sense of what I had just done, I felt compelled to share the story with children conceived from egg donation. I wanted them to understand how they were created with love from three people. It was my way of connecting to the baby I helped to create. The written story flowed out of me easily, however the illustrations held me back. I was determined to create all of the art myself with art pastels and each piece of art took multiple hours. I eventually sealed this book away in a plastic box with my art supplies. I told myself that someday, I would finish this passion project.
I wrote a monthly newsletter for my clients, in the early days of my midwifery career. I wrote a manual for preceptors at the midwifery school I worked at. Recently, I wrote a workbook on compassion and empathy for my girls, as a Christmas present. I submitted an article to Mothering Magazine about my experience of weaning. Throughout my life, book ideas flood over me and I desperately wish I could press “pause” on my life, to begin researching, outlining, and writing. However, I have never considered myself a writer.
A couple of years ago, Hurricane Irma danced with a tornado and came barreling through my town of Gainesville, Florida. Fleeing from our home, in the middle of the night, was the most terrifying experience of my life. The trees that invaded the inside of our home, made our lovely house unlivable. The thoughts of what could have happened to us, played like a loop in my head for months. Sleep became a luxury I was unable to obtain.
Several months after Irma, I started writing my first fiction novel, as a way to continue healing from the trauma of the hurricane that changed my life. I felt more alive than I ever was. I was not afraid of sharing my voice with the world anymore. I couldn’t wait to write each day. Every free moment I had, I spent writing. I wrote at night when my girls were asleep. I wrote on the weekends, in café’s, and when I was out of town for work. I wrote in the mornings, after yoga, when I didn’t have clients scheduled. I wrote until two in the morning, when the words continued to flood out of my fingers. With each hard chapter I wrote, I felt freer and farther away from the tragedy.
Stay tuned for Part II
Anastacia Elizabeth Walden
This article is the first in a series.