Ever since I was a child, I wanted to be a writer. Writing has saved me in my darkest hour. After my father's death, I wrote to escape those bleak days. When my mother died only two years ago, the only thing that kept me alive was my writing. I wrote a journal and tried not to wallow in my paralyzing grief. Eventually, the journal became an avenue for my creativity. I wrote my mother about my ideas. Those ideas developed into full-blown stories.
Summer is coming, and I will have a respite from my day job. I vow to create a schedule and to adhere to it. I will finish the projects floating around inside my skull. Poor John Keats died before he could write every poem in his head. I swear that won't happen to me. The goal is to work this summer. Really work.