I have a family, with responsibilities for people ranging in age from 10 to 104. I have a day job with international travel and unpredictable demands. I have friends, a community and ‘to do’ lists perpetually syncing between multiple electronic devices.
In short, I’m a mid-life woman much like every other woman I know.
But I’m also a writer. Late at night, early in the morning and at lunch during my day job, I write. One, sometimes painful word at a time, I put sentences together, then paragraphs, chapters, books.
I’ve learned to write when writing is the last thing I feel like doing, to write while the noise of family life goes on around me and to write when it’s the only escape from bone-deep grief.
Once, I imagined a writer’s life as one of quiet reflection. Back then, I never imagined I’d do some of my most productive plotting in line at the bank or some of my best writing in a hospital cafeteria.
Along the way I’ve learned that books aren’t written because you have the time but because you make the time.
I write each day, at least 250 words, because anybody can manage 250 words, right?
Then a funny thing happens. Those words add up and even on the busiest week I’m writing almost 2,000 words, 8,000 words a month and little by little the story grows.
What about you? Have you ever taken small steps towards a dream?