Author Article: How I Became a Writer

It is hard for adults to change—hard to change ourselves, and still harder to change others.

I remember reading Ann Lander’s advice when I was a teenager:  Don’t expect him to change after you marry him.  Of course, I did not believe her.  I have a strong will.  After more than twenty years of marriage, however, I have not been able to change a single thing about my husband.  No matter how many times I complain, my husband will never separate clothes when he does laundry.  My delicates will forever go in with the towels and his disgusting biking clothes. 

I bow to Ann Landers’ greater wisdom.  But it is frustrating.  One of the most gratifying things about being an author is that, finally, you are able to bend someone to your will.  You can force your characters to change.  This even has a name:  the character arc.  For a character’s transformation to ring true with your reader, however, you must give him a powerful reason to change.  You must throw him into the fire. 

Most of us do not make big changes in our lives unless we face a crisis.  We may talk about changing course, but we rarely actually do it until something or someone gives us a big kick in the pants: you catch your spouse cheating, you lose your job, someone close to you dies, your kids leave home, you retire.  You probably needed or wanted to make the change all along, but you finally do it when your back is against the wall. 

This is true in real life and in books.  We require a hard shove to jump off the tracks.

My own transformation from lawyer to romance author is a perfect example.  Mid-life crises drove me to make this dramatic career change.  Not a single person who knew me ever thought I would leave my established career to become a historical romance author.  Not one.  Not even me. 

I worked as a high-level manager in the state children’s services agency, which is a draining job that does not leave you with much energy for personal reflection.  But then, my immediate boss of 5 years died after work one night. I was close to her, and her death shook me.  What’s more, she was my second boss in a row to die—and die young.  The effect was cumulative.  Life suddenly seemed too short.  I wanted time to think, time to be with my kids, time to visit my aging parents—and time away from work. 

I took a six-month leave of absence.  After two weeks, it was clear that my thirteen- and sixteen-year old did not want to spend time with Mom 24/7.  They wanted me to drive them places, write checks, and find stuff—nothing new there—which left me a lot of free time.  

With my mind clear, stories started coming into my head.  I began developing elaborate plots on my daily walks.  After two months, I decided to write a novel.  I had not written a word of fiction since high school.  I spent the next four months writing a bad first draft.

I was happy.  I didn’t want to stop writing. 

I was an introvert who had spent the last several years in a job where I was double-booked in meetings from dawn until dusk.  Every time I looked up, there were people standing in my doorway.  There was much I loved about my job.  I am glad I did it for as long as I did, but I was working against the grain.  When I started writing, I rediscovered the dreamer I had been as a child.  When I was a kid, my mother had my hearing checked because I did not hear her.  My hearing was fine; I was just off in another world.  

In The Writer’s Journey: Mythic Structure for Writers, Christopher Vogler explains how a hero often backslides after his first attempt at change.  He must learn and re-learn his lesson.  Like drug rehab, it usually takes more than one round to stick. 

And so I went back to work after my leave of absence.  I asked for a part-time position, in the hope that I could continue to write.  That lasted about a nano-second.  Soon I was in a job that was even more frenetic than the one I had before. 

Two things I never want to do again in this life are 1) cut services for abused and neglected children and 2) lay off staff I’ve just hired.   My new boss, an absolutely brilliant woman, got fired.  Very publicly.  I was forced to lay off staff that she had just made me hire a few months before.  That was it for me.  The final push.  I was done.

Just like a character in a book, I had crossed over.  I was on the downward slide of that character arc.  When I was moved into a different position that just made it easier to leave.  It took me another two months, however, to realize that I was not just done with that job and that place.  I started writing a new novel while I looked for a new job.  By the time I was getting second interviews, I did not want any of those jobs.  All l wanted to do was write. 

So my husband and I talked.  We decided that we could afford to be on one income for two years.  I quit and set about writing seriously with the goal of getting published.  That was the watershed decision.  At the end of the two years, I had an agent, but I had not sold yet.  I went back to work, but this time my priorities were different.  I took a non-supervisory job where I would be allowed to work reduced hours part of the year.  

When I got my two-book deal with a big New York publisher, I quit in a New York minute.  My editor and agent expressed unease over my precipitous leap into unemployment, but I had no real angst this time.  It’s in my nature to do things full-on, and I knew what I wanted.  I had a new goal, a new mission.  

They don’t call it mid-life crises for nothing.   When people hit it, they often make dramatic, life-altering decisions.  I could have done a lot worse than to come out as a novelist. 

The lesson for me as a writer is that in books, just as in life, crisis can be used as an impetus for transformation.   In order to force my hero and heroine to change, I have to torture them in some way first.  Perhaps repeatedly.  But I’ll reward them with a happy ending.  Every time.