Starting with an Image

It was spring of 2021. A year since the world had shut down, leaving gaping holes in our routines and plans. I was keenly aware of an artistic void in my life. In the past, I had attended choir rehearsals and dance classes, but the pandemic made those options disappear. In their absence, a part of my brain awoke from hibernation. As it yawned and stretched, it stirred something within me: an eagerness to sculpt a scene with words.

One day, I told my husband, "I have an itch to write, but I don't have an idea for a story. All I have is an image of a woman sitting on a rock and dangling her feet in the ocean. That's nothing."

His voice brimmed over with sincerity. "That's something. Just write about that. It doesn't need to be a story."

That evening, after another day of hybrid kindergarten, I opened my laptop. Even though I had spent my childhood improvising dialogue and crafting characters, it had been years since I had written creatively. I held onto a quiet hope that I would write a novel someday, but teaching and parenting had long taken my attention.

I placed my fingers on the laptop's keys and began to write. I didn't plan. I just let the words flow out of me onto the screen. The surf eased over her feet in the fading light, its rhythm slowing her pulse.

What a rush! A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth and I kept going. I didn't know this woman's name (I later found out that it was Anna). I didn't know why she was sitting on the rock, or what she was feeling. As the sentences turned into paragraphs, however, I learned more about her. When twenty minutes had passed, I sat back, exhilarated. And tired, too: my writing muscles were a bit sore. It had been years since I had used them, after all. But they hummed, full of peace and purpose.

The next evening, I sat down again. I was a little apprehensive. Could I replicate the previous writing session? Would I learn more about this woman? Would my writing muscles hum in triumph again or would they protest from overexertion?

Twenty minutes turned into forty. The next evening, I wrote for an hour. I couldn't stay away from this world I was creating. My brain whirred with activity. Again and again, I reentered the creative zone that I remembered from my college days, when my surroundings disappeared and time lost its meaning. It. was. thrilling.

I kept adding to the same scene, until a veritable chapter emerged. Then another. My husband cheered for me. One evening, I looked over at him and said, "I think this might be turning into something."

He smiled. "Like a story?"

I took a breath. "Maybe even a novel."

Three years later, I'm gearing up to go on submission.

And as I prepare this manuscript, this it-started-off-as-an-image novel, I have a new image in my mind. A woman is walking along a path at her alma mater, beside one of her closest friends. They're quiet. It's twilight. Someone's about to speak, though. I can feel it. I don't know what they'll say to each other. I don't yet know what will happen next. But it doesn't need to be a story. Not yet.

I know it will become one.