My writing career started because of an accident...
It’s in 1978. The school bell rings, and I can’t wait to go home. Our teacher, Ms. Raven, tries to calm us down before leaving class. But to be honest: almost no one pays attention to what she said as we’re all eager to get home. I’m one of them. Glad school’s over for now. The weekend is waiting. It has been a long day at school as we learned about history, geography, and mathematics.
As I head for the hallway, I glance sideways in Burt’s direction. I admire him from a distance; he has wavy brown hair and brown eyes. Burt’s one of the smart kids in my class. It’d be nice if we’d become friends. Then he’s out of sight, also running into the hallway.
I ran into the hall for the school’s exit so I can head home. The door’s wide-open. On my way to the door, I notice Peter standing in the doorway. He’s holding the door with both hands and smiles at me. I come closer. His grin widens.
He slams the door in front of me as I’m holding out my hands to catch it. Crash! The door’s glass breaks and scattered all around. Broken pieces are stuck in my wrist. Blood streams down over my hand, but it doesn’t hurt a bit. My right hand’s numb.
I want to cry, but no sound comes over my lips as I step back in shock. Two girls standing on the stairway are looking at me with their jaws dropped. One of the mother’s—waiting for her child—come running down. Ms. Raven also enters the scene while I don’t get what’s going on. Ms. Raven wraps a towel around my bloody wrist. I faint.
Now, it’s 2014. I still feel little in the fingertips of my right hand, but I’m used to it by now. So it’s no biggie as I’m working on a computer application for a client. Then my right hand—the one I injured so many years ago—trembles. I can’t hold still! My God! My fingertips are getting numb and feel like ice cubes. I went to see a doctor at the hospital, and even after six months of therapy, I can’t hold still my hand.
My programming career is over. I cannot continue working for clients, so instead, I start writing… a new writer is born.