I was about eight, sitting in church. A woman sat three pews in front of me and my parents. She was in a hurry and had to leave in the midst of an "Our Father." She darted out onto the rust-colored carpeted aisle that stretched from the back of the church where my dad would march me if I was being too restless to the front where I received the body of Christ each Sunday. (Yes, I realize there is some debate as to what is the front and what is the back of a church.)
The woman moved so quickly that her purse sailed off her shoulder. She caught it with her fingertips before it hit the floor.
Long after she'd left the church, I replayed the scene I'd witnessed over in my mind, recalling how her body moved, her facial expressions, the energy she exuded, and the reasons why she had to leave so suddenly.
It was then that I knew I was a writer.