Words buzz in my brain like flies trapped behind glass. They’re loudest on my yoga mat, sitting in an unrelated meeting, lying in bed as the little hand on the clock hits five.
These words are my heartbeat, my coffee, my drive.
I once wrote a novel about a couple searching for escape but somewhere along the way I no longer wanted to escape my own life and the words lost their meaning.
I recently completed a middle grade fiction novel about a little girl who lives across the street from a graveyard. It’s my gift to my first daughter. I just need to find the courage (and time!) to publish it.
Maybe after I write my gift to my second…
As the mama of a preschooler and a toddler, writing fits into the cracks of life, those minutes while their eyes shut or someone else watches them. Even as I type now, my family sleeps upstairs, unaware of the words pouring out of my heart.
I’m a writer/editor, teacher, mama, yogi. I don’t have it all figured out, but that’s what makes it all worthwhile.
And, of course, I write to let out those darn flies.