The idea of writing a book rolled around in my head for a couple of months. How much did I know? Who could tell me more? My father disappeared in 1977. That was a long time ago.

I know nothing about the Bahamas. I don’t know much about New England where he spent most of his life. And, by the way, I didn’t even know my father.

I left the box on the floor of my office, unopened, for most of two months. Then, in late September, I pulled it out and went through what I had. Once again, I was taken by the story, the reality and the potential. The reality is my heritage, unrealized and forever unknown.

The potential, though, called to me. That was real. The immediate problem was that I’ve never written fiction. I would have to make up a lot of the story, as well as the characters in it.

Thinking of the project that way actually made it seem more approachable. I did have some rough information as a foundation. I would invent what I didn’t know and create the people myself. I knew I would alter many of the facts I did have to protect the privacy of the people who are still around.

The wheels were starting to turn.