I sit at my desk. My fingers are poised on the keyboard of my computer. The overhead fan gently blows through my hair, and the floor fan behind me stirs the pile of papers I have on the floor next to my desk. The only sound comes from the fan, the sound of wind blowing, steadily, rhythmically. My dog Sammy is sound asleep next to my chair, and I make a mental note to watch out when I get up or I will roll over his tail. I look down at the field notes next to my keyboard. I read them silently, then look at the wall in front of my desk as I think. I am writing my story about my Hospice research. I am writing about the patient character. I have called her Marian. I picture her in my mind. She is Mrs. E.. the elderly lady I first met. She has cancer of the pancreas. I see her in my mind, sitting in the chair next to me. I hear her voice and see her fragile white skin. She is Aurora, the Hispanic woman my age who is dying of cervical cancer. I see her lying in her bed, talking to me, haltingly at first, then flowing more and more as we talk about her illness, her experiences with Hospice, her relationships with her children. I hear her voice and I smell the candles in her room. I see the flames of her Virgin Mary candles and in my mind I can see the sunlight reflecting through the crystals hanging on her etagere.

What do I want Marian to say? What would she say here? What is she feeling? What is she thinking? How can I show that? I think, then I begin typing, the words flowing from the blank wall, from some mysterious space deep in my mind, flowing so effortlessly that I don't know what they will say until my fingers type the words. I am not conscious of the words until I see them on the screen in front of me. My computer beeps, telling me that I have received an email. I succumb to the temptation to look. It is from Carolyn Ellis, my major professor at the University of South Florida.