My writing career started because of an accident...

Cynthia Fridsma

The year is 1978. The school bell rings and I can't wait to go home. Our teacher, Ms. Raven, tries to calm us down before she leaves the classroom. But to be honest, almost no one pays attention to what she says, because we're all anxious to get home. I'm one of them. I am glad that school is over for now. The weekend awaits. It was a long day at school as we learned about history, geography and math.

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 is one of the smartest kids in my class. It would be nice if we became friends. Then he's out of sight, running into the hallway as well.

I ran into the hallway to get out of the school so I could go home. The door is wide open. On my way to the door, I notice Peter standing in the doorway. He's holding the door open with both hands and smiling at me. I come closer. His grin widens.

He slams the door in front of me as I reach out to catch it. Crash! The glass of the door shatters and scatters everywhere. Shards are lodged in my wrist. Blood pours down my hand, but it doesn't hurt a bit. My right hand is numb.

I want to cry, but no sound comes out of my lips as I step back in shock. Two girls standing on the stairs look at me with their jaws dropped. One of the mothers - waiting for her child - comes running down. Ms. Raven also enters the scene while I don't understand what's going on. Mrs. Raven wraps a towel around my bloody wrist. I pass out.

Now it's 2014. I still can't feel much in the fingertips of my right hand, but I'm used to it by now. So it's no big deal as I work on a computer application for a client. Then my right hand - the one I injured so many years ago - shakes. I can't stand still! Oh my God! My fingertips go 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 my hand still.

My career as a programmer is over. I can no longer work for clients, so I start writing instead... a new writer is born.