Several weeks ago, I developed community-acquired pneumonia, AKA walking pneumonia. I lay weeks on the couch, listless, weak, with no appetite. My family doctor tried diligently to avert it. When it developed into a bacterium, the antibiotics finally worked.

But until I fully recovered, I couldn’t shut my mind off. Over the days and weeks, chained to the couch, I spiraled into a black hole of unfavorable memories of my life. With no energy to read or watch TV, I gave myself a lecture, “You’ve got to stop this nonsense and do something, or you’ll end up at the point of no return.”

With my mental health at stake, to stop the downward trajectory, I began to compose my second memoir, a story I rarely spoke of.

I once entertained writing this book about the challenging, but wonderful, two years I lived and worked in Cameroon, West Africa in 1980. I discounted its value because it was not as compelling as my first memoir, Pink Flamingos, had been. It didn’t have birth, death, heartache, heartbreak, rejection, suicide, sexual harassment, sex, and my own near-death experience. Who would want to read such a fairytale book?

At this point, its readability didn’t matter, I had to survive my mental decline. On day one of my self-imposed assignment, I crafted the first chapter summary in my mind’s eye. As my memory rekindled, days 2-20 of my infirmary created more chapters of escapades and critical events that were compelling and intriguing.

A couple of weeks later, when I regained my stamina, I typed up the 20 summary chapters. Wow, this book does have merit; a reason, a purpose, and a takeaway. My enthusiasm excelled, and I called five American friends in three parts of the U.S., characters in the book, to pick their brains about their memories of those events. Some I had not been in touch with for years and two since I left Cameroon in 1982. The excitement among us was palpable.

I’m sharing this with you to put the stake in the ground that I plan to write and publish this book. Wish me well on my writing journey.

Postscript: Since the phone calls to my five Cameroonian friends, the group has now grown to about eight, with plans to have a Zoom reunion and one inperson in the future.

What writing inspirations have you encountered? How do you survive the grip of illness? What comments do you have?

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