If I’d only known. . .

Writing is difficult enough.

The constant self-doubt and rewriting, coupled with long nights tapping away at laptop keys can send a woman right over the edge. There’s stealing away, when unexpected moments allow the time, like I’m meeting my dirty, little secret for coffee. Writer’s block. Writer’s elbow.  It’s a wonder anyone writes at all.

Now, pretend you have kids.

It helps that my kids are all creative by nature, but that doesn’t mean they are low maintenance.  I lose a lot of writing time to them each week, still there’s this ultra awesome side effect. They talk about writing all the time. Not like it ‘s a pipe dream, either. But, like it is a totally viable, doable ambition. Like it’s a craft. Which it is.

They drive me nuts to look at it, to hear about it, to discuss it all. It’s kinda cool.

Our passions translate to our children without being noticed. My daughter asked me one day, “Will you be sad if no one wants to publish your book?” I thought about it maybe a second before I answered, “Nope, that wasn’t the point. I told myself a story. That was the point.”

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