Cheap Chardonnay
In the glass on my desk.

It's not what I'd prefer to be sipping on a late Tuesday afternoon. But it'll do.

Life is glorious, wondrous, filled with precious moments of babyhood and childhood and teenhood and womanhood and any other "hood" that might apply.

I am blessed.

And then I place my writer's cap firmly on my head for the seventy thousandth time. And I wonder.

I wonder...do I press on?

Is it worth it?

When all is said and done, I am not of the "I write because it's the same as breathing" ilk. To sequester my work in a drawer a la Emily Dickinson is, to me, pointless.

I write to touch lives.

I write to inspire and enthrall youngsters.

I write to draw others into worlds that aren't decrepit with rampant sex and unnecessarily foul language.

I write to express the boundless, God-given imagination I can't seem to ignore.

I write to be published.

I write to be published.

I write to be published.

And so I've answered my own question.

Cheap Chardonnay. The warmth of approaching spring. Joy in my daily life.

And words. Hundreds of thousands of words. Waiting to be written.

Onward.