Writing came as naturally as did motherhood. From an age where memories first fuzz into concrete focus, I remember writing "books" and stories. Whether it was nonsense or research, I always love to write.

In the seventh grade, I was given an assignment that would change my writing forever. I was asked to write a poem using flashback. While my classmates churned out haiku and sonnets on love and childhood, I chose a train ride to Auschwitz for what would become three full pages of verse and would open the door to becoming published. After the poem won two awards and was featured in my hometown newspaper, I pursued the muse with a ravenous passion.

By the time I reached high school, I had submitted poetry, considered far beyond my scholastic ability, for the Independent School Association of the Southwest's publication requirement for my school to maintain its singular accreditation in Louisiana. My creative writing had taken on a personality deeply seeded in satire and allusion, when it wasn't solely metaphorical. I had captured on paper my ability to see the bigger picture.

At the behest of my drama instructor and my English literature professor, I began work on a novel. My interest in the intricacies of crime, and the pathology so associated, was in its infancy. My chronicle of terror, thinly veiled within the context of college life, was nearing its last chapter when my life would change, irrevocably.

A house fire consumed the trappings of life as I had known it. Somewhere in the pile of wet bricks and matted ashes were the cremated remains of thousands of hours and as many pages of work. In my despair, I could no longer hear the muse. I had not the heart at seventeen to rekindle the writer's flame.

I changed my focus and concentrated on the pursuit of a family. Having come from a large family, I had always known that children would be in my future. The extent of this knowledge would only be revealed over the next twenty years.

My husband and I went to the hospital on a Sunday afternoon, fully expecting to have the medical magicians stop labor that was entirely to early. We had no idea that our tenth child would arrive within twelve minutes of our checking into the hospital.

The following morning would bring news that our daughter was airlifted to another state, where she was not expected to survive. My husband was unprepared for the news of how close he had come to losing both his tiny daughter and his wife the night before. Sixteen days later, we would say goodbye to the smallest human being we had ever seen.

As I watched the mayor carry the tiny coffin to the grave side, the muse began to call again. She would not be denied. So many experiences swirled in my head, railing to be released. My fingers longed to caress the keys again. Yet, I did not want to contribute only sorrow to the literary world.

I surfed around looking for new advertisement space for my jewelry, my escape for the creativity within which I could not stifle. Totally innocuous on the right hand side of the screen, written in blue letters, inauspiciously understated: the advertisement read "Get Paid To Write Articles". The muse screamed in clear words, "This is the answer." www.Helium.com

The breadth and scope of the titles were the powerful cleansing of a waterfall as it cascades down a rocky cliff face. Here, I knew, I could release all of the constructive knowledge I had amassed over years of legal writing, retail management and parenting. Now, all that was valuable that remained behind the dam of grief could pour forth.

If but one thing I impart spare a moment's heartache for another, than my endeavor be deemed worthwhile.

Learn more about this author, Ann Marie Dwyer.
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