I didn’t start out as a writer. I’ve been a musician for many years. I first picked up a guitar when I was sixteen. I played in bands through high school and college. I went to graduate school to study composition. I got a Ph.D. I had my music published, performed, and recorded. I taught music technology, recording, and multimedia classes for eight years. It was my path—my career.
And then, four-and-a-half years ago I started writing.
Because my daughter, who had just turned three, couldn’t be understood. I wrote to give her a voice because she didn’t have one yet, and I wanted to tell her story.
The story of a girl born with a cleft, who had surgery at four months old. A girl who had been through enough in her short life when we found out she had childhood apraxia of speech.
I became a writer for her. Sometimes, in the midst of all the work—the hundreds of thousands of words, the writing, rewriting, editing, and proofing—not to mention all the work that goes into a writing career—networking, promotion, querying, submitting, blogging, web page tweaking, etc—in the midst of all the business I forget why I’m doing this.
Why do I write?
To give a voice to my daughter, to all kids without voices, and to all the voiceless.
I’m not sure what that means in terms of what I will write next. But it gives me something to think about, and to write about. Out of that idea, I will see what comes next.
And that is a good thing.