by Ann Marie Dwyer

Created on: April 05, 2007   Last Updated: April 22, 2010

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 have always loved to write.

In the seventh grade, I was given an assignment which would change my writing forever. The assignment was 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 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 written diverse poetry, considered far beyond my scholastic ability. I submitted to 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 British 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 which 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 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

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