p.s. i love you

In the blink of an eye, my life has radically changed. Instead of long, leisurely weekday mornings getting breakfasts, making hot cocoa, drawing baths, playing board games, checking email, emptying the dishwasher and policing screen time, I am out the door at 6:40 a.m. to catch the train to Chicago. Although Elliott remains my faithful alarm clock and early morning companion, it's highly unlikely that I will ever catch a glimpse of Liam on a weekday morning. Age seven is the new sixteen.

The first morning I was gone, I scribbled Liam a quick note on scrap paper. He wrote me back that day. So I decided to get a notebook and collect our daily notes back and forth.

This morning I was running late and forgot to write. Liam, apparently, was a little heartbroken. But he faithfully wrote his note anyway.

I have always been a huge fan of the love letter. It's the writer in me, and the romantic. Although it is only day four of this new long-term adventure, I figure if my boy and I can keep up the note writing for at least a few months, I'll be grooming a little Shakespeare, and coming home after a 12-hour day to the best words I can imagine.

good intentions

Last New Year's Eve I wrote a post with my intentions for the year. One of them was to start writing a book.

I feel the pit growing in my stomach when I even suggest that I am going to do this. I fear failure. I fear that I have nothing new to say. I fear getting stuck and not being able to get unstuck. I fear bad reviews.

A couple weeks ago, I was invited to join the Redbud Writer's Guild. Being among these amazing women writers I feel a little like the awkward new girl at the lunch table, but I know the encouragement and accountability will give me the kick in the butt I need to get to work. And, with my newfound confidence, I pitched my idea to an agent (full disclosure: my cousin) and he told me to get started. Gulp.

Not knowing exactly how to begin something that's longer than a blog post, I've been digging up my old journals and poetry notebooks. Amidst hundreds of broken lines of scribbled poetry and prose I found this advice I copied from Jane Kenyon:

Protect your time. Feed your inner life. Avoid too much noise. Read good books, have good sentences in your ears. Be yourself as often as you can. Walk. Take the phone off the hook. Work regular hours.

I think my younger self knew that if I lived this poet's life, whatever I wrote would come from a place that mattered. It would be beautiful, whether anyone else read it or not. Book or no book, I am going to start, and hope my younger self was right.