I have a birthday in another day or so. Not one of the big ones, with a zero, but I can’t help but remember the last big one.
It landed me here.
All I did was muse a bit over what I had accomplished with the time I’d used up and what I really wanted to accomplish with the time I had left. I wanted the writing talent in my family to flourish and I came up with a plan.
We could read to each other, on Sundays, put a log on, make some tea and knowing you’d have an audience could serve as an incentive to make time and finish something. Eleven-year-olds, for the record, exist to point out flaws in plans like that.
“But Mom, you don’t write.”
“I’ll come up with something.” And I did. And I didn’t stop. But the original motivation? It was to encourage them.
And here I am.