Tomorrow I will write this post about writing. Promise.

I wrote that about nine months ago. Enough time in which to incubate a human in a womb. At the time I still had hopes of really writing. Writing for an audience. Writing a story. Writing to be published.

Not now though. Really. I still will write for myself, mostly because it feels good. The feel of words flowing out of my fingertips is just plain delicious. Sure, occasionally (more often than I like) something comes out under-ripe or bitter or too sweet. But the feeling of setting the perfect words or phrases in a paragraph is like eating a perfectly ripe plum or peach. Without the dribble.

You may ask why I’ve given up on writing for others. That’s simple. My mom quit believing in me. She now believes in my daughter instead. As she should. My daughter has been invited to join her school’s literary magazine. She’s that good. So mom gave my daughter a book about writing that she’d originally purchased for me. When she gave it to my daughter she said, “I bought this for your mom. Did you know she wanted to be an author?”

I thought Clare knew my dream, but I guess not because she was surprised at my mom’s words.

Why am I not an author? Well, aside from lack of talent, I don’t like criticism. I fear failure as well.

But it should not really matter. If I like writing, then I should write; whether or not I write for anyone is irrelevant.