I was 12-years-old when I decided I was going to be a writer. Once that decision was made, I wrote constantly. I scribbled lines of (truly terrible) poetry on scraps of paper and filled journals with short stories. I was going to be a writer and if my writing professors and Ernest Hemingway were to be believed, the best way to be a writer was to write every day. So I did. And it was good. It was satisfying just to put pen to paper, even if I was the only one who would ever read the words.
But then real life starts. And real life is busy. Who has the time and motivation to write for themselves when there’s the cooking and cleaning, the kids and the myriad of other tasks and relationships that fill up the free time in our days? Writing for yourself is especially hard if you spend all day writing or editing for a living. I miss it though. I have all sorts of ideas and I think about it all of the time, but actually sitting down and writing something completely for my own enjoyment doesn’t come easy. Continue reading