I made by human debut in Seoul, Korea in the mid-1970s. My mom told me I was born in the early evening after a long, arduous labor. She recalled rushing to the hospital (it was a private labor & delivery hospital) in the middle of the night. All through the night, I dug in my heels and refused to come out. The delivery nurse got desperate and fed my mom two raw eggs to make me come out faster. I guess her logic was that the raw eggs will make me even more slippery than I already was covered with amniotic fluid and fetus goo. Unfortunately, the eggs went to my mom’s poor nauseous stomach and not to the birth canal. When I finally made my grand entrance, my mom realized why it was so hard to pop me out. I was a solid ten-pounder.
During out stay at the hospital, my mom’s ob-gyn had a four year old son, who became friends with my four year old brother, during our stay at the hospital. My brother said that they ran around the small hospital with toy guns playing pretend soldiers. He was too busy playing to meet me right away but when he caught a glimpse of me in the hallway, he said he was shocked. I was a giant monster baby compared to the other tiny, pink ones. To his four year old self, his baby sister was enormous. I think he was a little traumatized but he got over it quickly, because there are a lot of pictures of him carrying me, a fat and squishy Michelin tire baby with tender love.
It was over thirty-nine years later that I finally sat down to write my 1st novel. At the time, I was juggling an all-consuming and uber stressful job as a litigation attorney, while raising two young boys. I was stretched so thin, I was transparent. Invisible. A ghost of my old-self. Any little thing would have shattered my fragile hold on control, but life decided to smash me to powder in style. An unexpected and heartbreaking revelation floored me.
I began writing to stay alive. Someone I love was hurting and there was nothing I could do to help him hurt less. Writing was the only place that I could find hints of my best self. To feel joy. Suddenly, I was soaring without physical form and unconstrained by time. Not having read a single book or taken a single class in fiction writing, I completed my first novel in two-months. Since I had not read a single book or taken a single writing class, it wasn’t the most well-structured story, but it was enough to show me that I had a voice and a capacity tell compelling stories. I wrote my second novel in four-months. It was better but I finally understood that writing was a craft and I had a LOT to learn.
I’ve spend the last year-and-a-half revising and rewriting those two manuscripts. It has been humbling and thrilling. It has been two-years and two-weeks since I set off on this writing journey, and my most important discovery is that it’s a journey I wan’t take alone. The generous, loving writing community, and my incredible Mentor 1 and Mentor 2, have taken me under their wings and has made me a better writer. And I can’t wait to learn more each day and someday soon share my journey with my readers. I imagine those who know me intimately by my writing to read each of my successive books and see my growth as a writer and a person. And the journey will never end because there is always more room for growth and more stories to tell.