by L. M. Nisgow

     When pregnant with my first child — don’t know, maybe it was hormones— I was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to write. On an old, reworked electric typewriter that vibrated loudly, and heated up after even a few minutes of typing, I sat down and started writing, with no story in my head. This “book” came to a merciful end when the vibrations, noise, and heat radiating onto my face made my morning sickness so bad that I’d have had to write with one hand on the keyboard and my head in a trash can, and I’m just not that coordinated.

     Years passed, and with two children and working full time as a nurse, writing seemed like a luxury I couldn’t afford. I’d always felt a bit inadequate when I’d read about those women with twelve kids and two jobs, who wrote bestsellers late at night. Switching to school nursing gave me summers free, and with the kids at my folks’, I wrote in a frenzy until I had my 405 page masterpiece done.  Being an idiot, I researched who to send my manuscript to, but not how, and sent the whole thing to a few publishers, with enough postage on another envelope for them to send it back.  A small fortune in postage, but I didn’t care, because I knew the royalties would soon make it back, and more! I fantasized about being on talk shows, and worried that my vast fortune might cause a problem in family dynamics. How would we keep our children grounded in the face of all the fame and fortune? How would I handle the demand, when all my friends and family would be clamoring for their copies? What a surprise when I got my package back in the mail, frequently and in record time, with polite, standardized notes of regret. 

     Summer ended, so it was back to work and motherhood.  I stuffed my precious manuscript into a box under the bed, to languish the years away with the dust bunnies and lost cat toys.  I drove to work every day, fantasizing about writing.  The day I hit 62 and became eligible for my pension, I announced to my husband that I wanted to quit work and write. He turned pale, gulped, sweated bullets, and then said “Okay.”

     Overjoyed with the prospect of writing on a computer vs. typewriter, I reverently pulled out my old manuscript, and began reading through it —with abject horror.  Fifty years of voracious reading had taught me a thing or two about style, and oh, gag me with a spoon, there was none.  So — I dumped all the dumb stuff, changed the plot a bit, added a bunch of characters and subplots, and finally came up with a book I adored.

      Looking for representation, I found with each answered email query, an agent asking what I’d previously published. WHAT? Well, duh, that’s what I need you for!  Was that not obvious? Then someone suggested I publish on Amazon.  At sixty-three, by the time I wrote another gigabyte  of emails, I could be dead, so why not?  Being computer stupid, I had to hire someone to format my work for KDP, followed by my spending a thousand hours on the phone in near hysteria while the KDP agent talked me through the launching, and then, at last, I beheld my book on Amazon.  A few days later, I read my first review — five stars!  I’d never felt so vindicated.  I was a published author at 63.

A few days later, I read my first review — five stars!  I’d never felt so vindicated.  I was a published author at 63.

      I’d had such fun writing my characters that I couldn’t say goodbye. Hence, the trilogy.  I knew, just knew, that once it was completed, my trilogy would be selling like A/C in the desert.  Astoundingly, this did not come to pass. Over the past eight years, I’ve had only 800 reads, many from promotional giveaways or books I sent to friends.  

     I’m 70 now, and will probably never write another book. My dad died at 96, and my mother at 49, so who knows how much time I have left? I want to spend that time enjoying my family and dogs, volunteering with animal rescue groups, maybe traveling if we get the chance.  No new stories keep me awake at night, begging to be written. But I refuse to let my books disappear.  They are a part of me that will continue, telling the reader who I am, in so many ways. They are, in between the lines, a love letter to my children, my husband, my parents and grandparents, and even to my animals. That’s why I still spend a few hours a day online, showing my books in the hope that people will find entertainment and truth in my work. I will remain, for I am, an author.

L. M. Nisgow was born and raised in San Antonio, Texas. She worked as a
registered nurse in many different areas of nursing, including Acute Care
Psychiatric, Surgical ICU, Public Health, and School Nursing, during her career of 42 years. Still residing in San Antonio, Nisgow lives with her husband of 44 years, and their two dogs: chowhound Abigail, who would happily throw Mom under a bus for a piece of chicken, and the lovely, faithful Lady Simone.

L. M. Nisgow is the author of the sci-fi trio, “The Elpie Trilogy:” “Elpie Erectus,” “Elpies Among Us,” and “Elpie Imperative.”