I’ve been writing for a while. A diary at ten, letters to my boyfriend at sixteen (yes, I married him), grocery lists at twenty-five. Then I got serious. I joined a critique group, had a few articles published in magazines, and dove head-first into learning and practicing the craft of writing.

It’s not easy to find the time. With a teacher-husband who flits from one terribly interesting pursuit to another and three children building their minds, talents, and relationships, the calling of home-keeper occupies much of my time. (As does substitute teaching. There are bills to pay, and, although it’s one of the most rewarding avocations, no one pays me to be the glue that holds the home together.) But standing here at what’s probably the middle of my life, I’ve learned a few things. One is that my dreams are my responsibility. If I want to write, I have to sit down and do it. My friend Bea tells me the dishes can wait. She’s older than me. I listen to her.

My aspirations? I guess I can narrow it down to two basic goals. One of them I’m borrowing from Ernest Hemingway:  “Write the truest sentence that you know.” Once I’ve chiseled away all the fluff and found a true idea, I want to share it. Make a connection with the reader. I love it when I am reading and the writer reaches out beyond the page, takes my face in hand and says I see you! I know how you feel. You are not alone. Those seem like good goals to me. Although a villa in Tuscany would be nice, too. . .