When it comes to writing a novel, I have been sitting on my hands for far too long. I had an idea, stemming from a dream I had over a decade ago. At this time I sat and I wrote two chapters and threw it to the side. A marriage, a step-daughter, a court battle, a baby, a separation and a small pandemic later, my novel got tired of waiting on me and started writing itself. In my head at work, on hikes, while watching movies, it simply demanded to get out.

So after a long break where I managed to find every excuse not to work on it, I am back with a vengeance filling most of my idle moments with some form of work towards making this book come to life. Between working full-time and raising kids, balancing friends and family obligations and still finding time for adventures, the book seems to be seeping out at the seems of the fabric that has shaped my life for a decade, and has become like another baby that follows me around and depends on me to grow.

So now, instead of my children only struggling with each other in the moments they need attention, they find themselves waiting quietly, (sometimes) as I finish a paragraph, jot a note or reread a line. I find missed calls, cancelled plans and the like being blamed on my book rather than my children. And just like my children, I can’t wait to see my book grow.