It’s been one year since I started keeping regular writing hours. 

I struggled to write a novel all my life.  In the six months prior to keeping a schedule, I started writing a handful of books, all with the same character, all viewing the character through different lenses.  I lamented the fact that my life was too chaotic, that I never had time to myself to think, that I never had room in my life to take writing seriously.

Then something turned over inside my soul and my view of life changed.  When my view changed, my habits changed.

I’m sure the precipitating event was the death of my dad.  It took me a little over a year to realize that the even-earlier death of my mother-in-law was the beginning of a trend rather than a fluke.  Somehow all my excuses about not having enough time to write became my reason to write.  Oh my god.  There really might not be time to write.  There might be no writing from me at all, no books to leave to my kids, stories left untold, whole worlds never described.  Not ever.  I might not ever tell my stories.  Not ever.  Not.  Ever.

Without setting an alarm, I woke up the next morning at 5:00 and I started writing my first novel.  Aside from a few self-imposed writing vacations, I’ve been writing every morning since.  Today marks the end of my first year. 

Now when people tell me they have no time to write I feel panic that I’m not writing quickly enough.  No time.  Yes.  That’s the problem.  There might be no time to write.  Not ever.

Today I have one novel complete and I’m working on the next in the series.  I still have so much story to tell that I feel panic sometimes.  My biggest challenges always result from overfilling my books and overfilling my days.  Life is good and writing is good and I don’t want to miss any bit of it.