On 19 November 2007, I took up pen and wrote. I launched four mediocre blogs at that time and typed my time away. By February 2008, I would conceive the idea that would become Dolor and Shadow.
Today, 19 November 2015, I mark my anniversary as a writer. It is the day I declared that words were indeed my passion and that I would embrace them. I give you, “The Birth of A Writer.” The very article I wrote on that very day, eight years ago. To the day.
Her abdomen hardened as the bottom fell out from her stomach. This hadn’t been the first time he had come home without a job. Nor was it the second. In truth, this had to have been the eighth time in two years he had come home to tell his wife that he had been let go.Her knees began to tremble as her strength left her. She collapsed into the chair behind her as tears swelled in her eyes. Her body shook with fear. She knew the routine. She knew what would come next. The next four weeks would be dedicated to his job hunting while she worked endless hours at her own job. Every penny would be sucked into bills already months behind and ruthless, bitter fighting would ensue between her and her loving husband.She never once blamed him. It wasn’t his fault, after all. She knew he was a good guy and intelligent. She truly believed the fates had decided to target him.”We’ll be fine,” Her husband began his reassurance speech. He had this speech down pat from experience. “We’ve been worse off before. We just need to watch our spending and we’ll be okay. Monday I’ll go out and look for more work.”His words were no longer filled her with the reassurance she needed. Whatever he did find, things would be difficult and with Christmas just around the corner.She was silent for the remainder of the day. Her three-year-old daughter noticed her stiff silence and asked repeatedly if mommy was okay. She attempted a weak grin and whispered, “I’m okay” each time the toddler inquired as she pushed methodically through the house chores. “She’s three.” She thought. “Never should she know of these problems.”That night she lay in bed, her husband snoring rhythmically beside her. She hadn’t been able to eat anything all day and had spent the day hiding her tear-stained cheeks from her husband. Her body, which had been numbed with fear since the despairing news, lay rigid and unnaturally stiff between the sheets. A chill filled her lungs with every breath.She listened to the mechanical ticking of the clock in her room. She wasn’t tired, but had laid down in bed hours ago hoping to use sleep to escape the pain. She laid there for a few more minutes, her mind racing. What could she do?She sat up. What could she do?She threw the covers back and snatched up the robe laying on the foot of her bed. She knew what she could do. It was time for her to do what she had to do.She slowly opened the creaking door while holding her breath in fear of waking her husband. She entered the living room and closed the door behind her then walked to the computer sleeping on the desk opposite where she stood. After walking to the computer, she tapped the mouse and sighed.”Wake up,” she said to the slumbering monitor. After getting out of bed, she hadn’t been sure, but now, sitting down to the desk, she knew she could do it.”It’s time we get to work,” She told the machine before her.She pulled up her typing program and her fingers flew away with her imagination. But this time, it wasn’t with the love for self-expression. Nor was it for the joys of imaginative play left over from her youth. This time, it was for the need to live. To survive and feed her children. And if all she had to sell were the ideas she wrote, she would.”I only hope they’re good enough,” She thought as her fingers punched away at the letters. “We have nothing else.”
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