Just as the seasons changed during quarantine, so did I.  What began as a coping mechanism has become a calling. I woke up excited to write.

I continued to study the craft and share my work with other writers, which was both terrifying and exhilarating. The first time, I felt like I was standing in the middle of town square in my pajamas—or even worse, finding myself naked and lost in a big city.

But the feedback—kind, constructive, and honest—gave me courage to share.

I’ve learned that writing is not a solitary act; it’s a conversation between the writer and the reader, and sometimes between the writer and other writers who are just as unsure and hopeful as I am.

Last October, I joined a writing retreat in Bordeaux led by John Claude Bemis because during quarantine, he had given me confidence when I really didn’t have any. The group was comprised of writers from many states in the USA and an outlier from Canada.

We lived together in an incredibly beautiful chateau for a week. The retreat was a miraculous experience—even the meals, the tours—and especially the friendships.

In the mornings, John held class. He inspired us—stretched us farther than we had ever dared. Every experience he created sparked our growth as writers.  The only word I can think of to describe the morning sessions with John is MAGICAL.  I’m talking, aha moments—honing skills as storytellers, developing clarity and structure, finding our style and voice, even grammar and mechanics.

During class, John taught lessons in craft using examples from our own writing—scary wonderful. And in a one-to-one session, he offered invaluable feedback and suggestions that lifted my writing to a higher level. 

In the afternoons, we drafted and revised in the innumerable nooks and crannies of the castle. And John’s adorable wife, Amy, taught yoga classes that stretched the limits of our bodies.

So, I’m attending again this October. This time, it is in Provence. I am the only person to return from last year. While I will miss the writers from last year, the retreat is hosted by the same lovely women, Bree and Carol. I am looking forward to meeting new writers, spending time with Amy, and learning from John—and continuing to grow as a writer.

One of the biggest surprises of my journey as a writer is the way I see myself. I’ve spent decades being a lot of things—daughter, sister, friend, spouse, teacher, school psychologist—but adding “writer” to that list has given me a new sense of identity.

I show up to revise pages I’ve written, and to draft more—again and again—not because I must, but because I love it. The more I write the more I realize that’s the real measure of being a writer—not a book deal, not a best seller list, but the willingness to keep going.

Lessons from a Super Bloomer

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that there is never a good excuse not to start. We spend so much time waiting for the “right” moment, the perfect circumstances, the assurance that we won’t fail. But creativity doesn’t work like that. It’s not about certainty, it’s about curiosity, experimentation, and the willingness to revise and begin again.

 Starting later in life has its own advantages. I have a deep well of life experience to draw from, and a perspective that comes only with years lived and challenges faced. I understand patience a little better now, and I know that the detours and bad choices we make in life often make the best stories.

The Road Ahead

I’m still learning, still growing, still pushing myself. Some days the words flow easily, other days they come reluctantly, like my dog Sammy when it is time for a bath. But I’ve made peace with the fact that writing will always have its ups and downs.

Under the tutelage of the prolific writer, Bethany Hegadus—founder of the Writing Barn, I’ve made peace with the fact that publishing is an industry. The important thing is to keep showing up, keep telling stories, keep believing that what I say matters, and to work with a community of writers.

I don’t know where this road will take me. I have two picture books published with the support of nonprofits, and another coming out within the year. These books wouldn’t exist unless I’d heard the opportunities that knocked—hitched up my socks, stepped up, and asked a question that hadn’t been asked before.

Maybe someday (sooner than later) I will be published traditionally, maybe not. I admit this “maybe not” drives me to become bolder, braver in my quest. Maybe something I haven’t even imagined will happen. I’m a firm believer in serendipity, and right place-right time.

I believe in the ever-presence of stories waiting to be told. I watch for them—they’re everywhere. They sneak up beside me, behind me, or in front of me— inspired by the present, the past, or the imagined future. I have a big box filled with scraps of paper scribbled with ideas for stories—some of them will be written, others never will be—and I mourn for those that won’t.

Writing has become part of who I am; I am a writer through and through. I believe it’s always been there, just waiting for me to recognize it, water it, and give it the opportunity to grow.

My Message to You

If you’re reading this and thinking, I wish I could start writing, but I can’t because of time, age, or whatever, let me gently and lovingly say: you’re wrong.

So, pick up your pen. Open your journal. Spread your fingers across your keyboard. Open that blank document. Start. And if the doubts come—and they will—send them to the corner like a I did. Remember this: The more you show up, the better you will get, and the better you’ll feel.

The moment you begin is the perfect time. Your voice is needed. Your perspective is valuable. And you never know whose heart you words might reach—maybe even your own. Whatever you do, don’t give up.