Remember the typewriter? How about a notebook and a pen?

I'd alternate between the two. Back then, my handwriting was rounded and perfect. Stories would pop up from nighttime dreams or daydreaming.

Daydreaming was frequent in long rides to the Algarve, in the south of Portugal. When we flew (Dad was a pilot), the daydreams were a bit shorter. The Sony Walkman played my mixed tapes, recorded from the radio to set the mood, and my imagination would take flight. Some head-galloping dreams would make it to the paper.

I'd write in Portuguese and, a few years later, in English. French was the rare language for my creative writing, as I used it for school and homework until I was eighteen.

In college, I discovered I could create poems without using classic form. Free verse has been my choice—it's easier and faster. I learned more tools there, but I felt I just wasn't good enough—imposter syndrome at work.

I took a creative writing hiatus, and then in 2004, after attending Nancy Aronie's Writing from the Heart workshop on Martha's Vineyard — a gift from cousin Wendy, I started a writing group.

I have kept the Nomad Writers alive since that year, and thanks to the weekly commitment, I have written consistently throughout.