On the wall hung two prints of what she called her calming paintings. Monet’s Edge of the Cliff and Paul Gauguin’s Rocks and Sea. The colors and beauty they portrayed helped her keep her emotions in check. Just looking at them soothed her. She hoped they would also allow her mind to drift away to wonderful scenes.

In the corner sat a small, potted palm, which she hoped would survive (she’d never looked after a plant).

A desk she’d picked up in a thrift store sat against the opposite wall to the bookcase, with a comfortable chair, well-cushioned in a deep, rich shamrock green. Absent though was a computer, laptop or even a tablet.

Despite a world filled with technology, she wanted to begin the old-fashioned way, creating a story as did her heroes of centuries past. She would use a pencil and write on a lined pad. The simple movement of a hand to reveal letters, words, then paragraphs, made her feel closer to the spirit of those classic, great writers; Daphne Du Maurier, O. Henry, Emily Bronte, Oscar Wilde and Edgar Allen Poe.

On an early Wednesday evening following an after-dinner walk to settle her mind, she began. What happened next surprised her. She’d always believed writers faced difficult challenges, that writer’s block, inexperience and lack of inspiration would greet her from the first paragraph.

Not so. Writing came as naturally to Nem as breathing or using the diary.

As she finished each page, she placed it on top of a growing neat pile at the corner of the desk. Other than looking up while moving the completed sheet to the stack, she didn’t stop. Even when Emily complained of a lack of attention, mewling and swiping at her feet, she nudged the feline with her hand and replied, “Not now Miss. I’m on a roll.”

Nem only stopped when her wrists and hands screamed at her, insisting while she might be enjoying herself, they, so unaccustomed to this spontaneous workout, were not.

She interlinked her fingers, cracking her knuckles as she stretched her arms in front of her body. Twisting her neck from side-to-side, she stared at her work and at once an immense sense of pride swelled in her chest.

She pulled the bundle over and counted the sheets, flipping each one onto a new heap with reverence, as if they were delicate lace.

When she’d finished she sat back and shook her head in disbelief. Twenty-seven pages of story. Wow! Twenty-seven pages with characters that hadn’t existed until tonight. Until she ran her pencil across the paper and made them come alive.

Not discouraging at all for her first stroll around the block as a writer. If it weren’t for her complaining hands and the growl of her stomach, reminding her she hadn’t eaten in hours, she’d continue. Nem gathered her pages together and made her way to the kitchen where she placed them on the bench next to the stove.

As she ate the quickest meal she could find in the cupboard—instant chicken noodles—her gut tightened in anticipation as she picked up the first page to read back what she expected to be a mess.