Life would be easier if I didn’t need to write, if I didn’t have to make up all these stories and say that they mean something.

Why can’t I just be a reader? There are more than enough books to fill me up until the day I die. Why can’t I sit back and enjoy the fruits of everyone else’s labor? I’ve been putting stories down on paper since I was able to write, seeking advice and soaking up praise from any adult willing to give me two minutes.

Life would be easier if I was single. No guilt when I spent time away from my kids to attend a conference, run off to a class, or sit for too long with friends over coffee and marked up manuscripts. I could hide in my office until early hours of the morning pounding out my words, doing research, rearranging my books.  I would give all my energy to this life, no need to save my mind for the question of why flowers bloom, birds fly, or slugs leave trails.  No energy spent making myself patient, kind, predictable.  Think of all the schooling I could get, the friends I would accumulate…oh, the places I would go.

Life would be easier if I could just make a choice, say: “I’m done,” pick one or the other, and commit to it.

I wish I could do one part of my life completely  without the other side demanding it’s due.

Life would be easier. Not better. I gave up writing for a few months, but found I couldn’t live that way- I can’t give up my family. Would there be loneliness, an empty house- a sense that I was lost? Hollowed out, missing one, while struggling to convince myself that the work is enough.