I had given up on writing, put it aside for years and here I found myself, trying again.
I closed my eyes, feigned calm. I opened them to a rape hot line poster on the back of the stall door. It didn't help.
I made my way to the auditorium, and within minutes I was confronted with the question most bloggers struggle with: So, are you a writer?
I think I could take it further, stir up some good gossip 'round here if I talked about how therapeutic blogging has been for me, how reading other women's sites fills a hole I've been shoveling to cover since I became a Mom. I know how that sounds, me huddled with my laptop, 'hanging out' with my imaginary friends. Yet it feels right, and I am thankful every time I open my google reader and see you, lit up to greet me.
Now that my youngest is in first grade, conversation turns towards work, what might I like to do now. I always had Big Plans, to return to some management position. I loved working, used to work like a madwoman. Maybe I was.
I want to shrug; say I don't know. But lately I've been letting the truth drip from my lips: I want to write fiction, I want to see a novel through.
I now how it sounds, but anymore, I just don't care.