When I was 17, I assumed that even if I wasn’t rich and famous by age 21, I’d at least have life figured out.
I’m a lot older than 21 now. Life’s journey contains more hills and valleys than I anticipated. I expected that, at my stage of life, I’d have an empty nest and plenty of time to write and create. I’ve done my share of laundry and attended my share of class plays.
But we put my 90-year-old father in the hospital last week due to general weakness. We’re moving my in-laws to our town because a stroke and macular degeneration have made them needy. I chauffeur four parents to appointments.
We have 6 grandchildren under age 6 – all excited to visit our hobby farm. They are too young to explore alone yet so we take walks to examine mounds of dirt, butterflies, and rocks. We sometimes have to see how far those rocks will fly and whether we can hit the crop-duster overhead.
Oh, yeah, and I need to write.
But this is the life of a writer. Life wraps its warm arms around us while we interact and observe and analyze. People matter and I’m gathering stories every day.
But it’s even more important right now that I’m making stories.