The past few days I have been in Iowa visiting family. I read, I reflected, I edited my nephew’s collection of short stories (he’s 9), and I breathed.

In terms of my writing life, I feel as if I’m teetering on the edge of some precipice, hesitant to fly off. I can’t go back. The back is a dead wasteland where I felt nothing. Sometimes feeling numb is good, necessary even. But there came a point where  the feelings slowly crowded the air, and I couldn’t stay there trying to be impervious.  I’m going to need to embrace the air.

Someday soon, I will lock myself in writing mode, spend hours creating, obsess over submissions, and be flying.