Senior year of high school, my English teacher had our classes make a list of at least twenty-five things we wished to accomplish in our lives. In looking for an old poem, I found this list on my computer tonight.
Some of the things I have happily accomplished, like getting married and having children. Others I still hope to do, like eating a salad made entirely of foods I’d grown in my own garden.
I should have known it would be on the list, but I was still surprised to see what claimed the number one spot: writing a novel.
As I’ve taken time away from this blog and my other one to revise my manuscript, and now that I’m eagerly launching into a new novel project, I’m proving to myself that I really do write because I love it. Do I think I might have something to say? Yes. Would it be really cool to be published? Of course. But I write because I have to. I came back from my hiatus itching to get words down, edited, organized, and posted. Writing is part of who I am—when I’m joyful, grieving, or trying to figure it all out.
And writing a novel is one of the best things I ever did.