Years passed. The recording of that reading was long forgotten in a drawer. I was living in a meditating community surrounded by good friends. I had a great job, wonderful employer, apartment with floor to ceiling windows and handmade lace curtains, and I just bought my first new car. Life was good.

Until it wasn’t. Until it felt like my seams were unraveling. Day after day I had this feeling, this inner prompting, that I had to do more with my life. But more what?

Without knowing what the future held, I left that life behind to find an answer. I quit the job, gave up the apartment, sold the car, but kept the friends. And went to India, where I began to write and write and write. I haven’t stopped since.

When the thought to write a book was enlivened, I had no idea how to begin. Fortunately, nature intervened. The words just poured out.

But how does one go from writing to publishing? Today, with information at our fingertips, I imagine it is easier for new writers to get their footing. It was not easy for me to get mine. It was a long learning curve.

Finding a gifted editor who force-fed me grammar helped. (Thank you, Jim F.)

Finding a talented and kind graphic artist also helped. These days most graphic artists work on their own, but this generous artist let me watch her work. Aside from having an adorable bird sitting on my knee each session, I began to see how books are constructed, details about layout, etc. In short, I was educated. I’m forever grateful. (Thank you, Liz H.)

I found a publisher interested in my first book right away. When they suggested there were changes they wanted me to make, I declined their offer. In retrospect, it’s likely their ideas would have enhanced the book. I’ll never know because I never took the time to listen.

Why? Because I felt guided to put those words on paper, and there wasn’t anything I wanted to change. I began to explore self-publishing where I could make all my own decisions. The rest is history.

In short, it took two months to write my first book and two years until I held a copy in my hand.

Since then, I’ve written two more books but I’ve never taken a writing class. The closest I came was when I was living in Venice, California. A friend invited me to sit in on a few of her writing classes in Marina Del Ray taught by an exceptional teacher named Bernard Selling.

I was invested in writing lyrics at the time and never signed up for Bernard’s class. Decades later, that experience became a milestone in my life. You can read more about it in my blog Psychic Whispers.