I don't want to forget all the doubt heaped upon me in this process, throwing clods of dirt on all of my ideas and mounding impossibility in my path.
Fast forward three children (they seem to have grown in a flash) and this writing pursuit slowed to a jog. Like the old game "Kick the Can", I had periods of lightning strike velocities, and then periods of slow skips to a halt.
Year after year, I claim the writer title with some trepidation, though I am working more consistently on projects than I have ever done in my life. The resistance to embracing it probably stems from the rooted fear of never being able to upgrade that title to author.
I'm not sure when I became such a lover of history. I didn't love history in school. Certain periods, yes, classes in general, not so much. Living and visiting the places I have, I wish I had understood the significance of those sites. I know my parents emphasized the significance of visiting Pompeii, and…
Every writer knows this. Inspiration strikes hard in the dead of night. She strikes so hard that by morning you have amnesia and can't recall a word she told you.
What I struggled to say in person, gained clarity when I was writing.