The Process

Call it a vision. Call it inspiration, but I’ve been gathering memories and the particles of necessities that were the foundation of my creative writing. Whether or not those tidbits and oddities provided a clear vision, even so, I was inspired by those memories. I was able to discover something significant about them.

My inspiration was tucked away, stashed in the crevices of my mind until the reason for my collections of memories—the twiglets and tidbits of nest-making—started to develop and take shape.   

Daddy’s Girl

When I was 6 years old I came down with Chicken Pox. I distinctly remember that very first itch. I was in school, sitting at my desk. First grade. I remember clawing my neck. Then there were 2 more itching spots, one on my forehead and one on my arm. By the time I was scratching all 3, the teacher took notice.

She helped me gather my things and escorted me to the door. I walked away from the school, raking my fingers across the chain-linked fence that ran in front of the playground—bump, bump, bump—letting them bounce as I walked along, dizzy with a fever.

Later on, I was lying in my bed, and Daddy came into the room. He sat on the side of my bed and leaned over me, reaching beneath my shoulders to support my head. With his other hand, he held a small, white container. 

I still remember the refreshing lime-aide oozing from the container and crunchy particles of ice filling my mouth. At that moment, I was Daddy’s girl. 

Experiences That Shape Lives

The  refreshing lime-aide experience is in stark contrast to one a few years later when I lied to my daddy. I got in trouble because of lying, and I saw him differently.  He was clearly disappointed in me, and I felt separated because of it—no longer Daddy’s girl. 

He could be two people: gentle, kind. He could be serious and intense. For most of my growing up years, I longed for the lime-aide-bearing, tender-hearted daddy. And often I wondered what in his experience shaped his life.

That wonderment spurred my earliest writing process. Externally, it set before me the vision for writing, but internally I required an earth-shattering reason to tell the story. That reason gave life to my writing. A vision moved me forward, but in my search to find the man who deserved my honor, the reason became the wind beneath my wings.

Something More

Creative writing came from something more than a whim. When I look back in time I see my writing evolved from a whim to a purposeful tribute to the man I call ‘My Father.’ It presented me with a deeply felt, delightfully consuming reason for writing.

Purposefulness is a very strong, very active driving force.

Novel by Annette: Eastbound from Flagstaff