Before you begin reading, let me assure that my next post will be about foster parenting, and it will be posted very soon. But I wanted to share something else with you first.

I’ve written my first manuscript for a children’s book. It probably won’t be a bestseller. You may not even find it at a bookstore. But I can hold a stack of papers littered with a story in my hands and say that I wrote it.

Between 4:00-4:30 in the morning (5:00-5:30 on the weekends), I sit at my kitchen table with a cup of coffee, my laptop, and I tell a story. My dog, Belle, is my shadow. She gets up with me and lays in her bed that’s placed right next to me at the table and sleeps as I type.

Just in case you’re wondering, I’m not a morning person. Never have been.

So what possesses me to wake up at this preposterous hour? Fear.

Ever since I was a kid, my dream was to be a writer. When I was in 5th grade, my class had a poetry writing contest. I had read Shel Silverstein poems so much at that point, so my poem had to have rhyme and rhythm just like his. I remember how much fun it was to write and how I wanted to write another one and another one. Our teacher decided on 5 finalist and she read them out loud to the class. Then the class voted on the one they liked best. And I won.

It wasn’t winning the poetry contest that kicked off my dream of writing. It was how much I genuinely enjoyed writing it. The crux of the biscuit was that my class actually enjoyed hearing it as our teacher read it to them. I think that’s when my dream of becoming a writer started to bloom.

Fast forward to July 2020, turning 35, and I still haven’t worked for what I wanted as a writer. For so many years, I’ve made the excuse of a busy schedule and not having time to write. But life is going by so fast. I’m running out of time. My fear (not my greatest fear, but a big fear nonetheless) is that I’ll leave this earth without a story a child could sit down in a comfy spot with and enjoy.

That fear is greater than the desire to sleep in until 10am. That fear wakes me up and drags my butt out of bed to type up a tale while half asleep.

And now I have it. The first draft. The very first, horribly rough, and incredibly embarrassing first draft. One that if you read it you would probably think I should choose a different dream. But if I die today, that story is on paper, and maybe some child will love reading it. That’s all I’ve ever really wanted.

I’ll let this draft marinate for a while before I begin revisions, and I’ll continue waking up to vigorous fear at an absurd hour because there are so many stories to be told.