I am sixteen…at least in my head.

I didn’t chose a nom de plume for my fiction.

I gave birth to a writing identity.

The Born Again Writer merges the unspoiled wisdom of my sixteen year old self with the experience of forty years of living. Life has unlimited potential again.

At sixteen, I wrote endlessly. I had more time, fewer obligations and I was a drama club ringleader. Creativity was as second nature as breathing. I looked hot in my red prom dress. There was an older woman locked up in that brain, too. She was the one who didn’t challenge her mother’s pushy guidance, “Get a science degree and be a professional”.  This let me to a pragmatic and academic life of saving people’s lives, or at least mending their injuries and providing symptom management for their illnesses.

The sixteen year me old grew into a forty year old with a passion for fun and being creative. But her words, the ones she used to tell stories and move hearts, stagnated in pages of science and “ologies”. Sixteen-me was the theme-finder of essays, the crafter of Christmas presents and the hand-tied writer denied her path. She looked hot in red nursing scrubs.

Last year, forty-me realized that no only did she want sixteen-me to come out from the shadows, but that she also couldn’t live without her. The Born Again Writer, the untapped potential of sixteen-year old self, jumped into the playing field held by my forty-year old body.

Sometimes, they are not in harmony, these two women in my head. The younger wants full control of the tools of my craft, driving my re-discovered career forward through doubt and the too-few hours of the day. The older woman speaks of caution and responsibilities, weighing down the creative process whilst giving solid footing for the future.

Discord or no, sixteen-me and forty-me want the same outcomes: transition, fulfillment, success.

They want to entertain readers and instigate deeper thoughts about the world.

They will make a difference with words instead of medicine.