My daughter refused to eat breakfast this morning, but only moments ago I found her taking bites out of playdough. What is it about playdough that children love? Because it's colorful? It's definitely not tastier than the cereal I offered earlier. Maybe she knows that, but it's just so pretty she can't resist.
Sometimes I wonder about that colorful lump of dough on the horizon: Publication. All the kids on the playground want it. I know I want it. I work hard for it, but when I get there will it be worth it or will it taste a little salty?
After years of staying up late writing and trying so hard to balance my dream with the bigger and larger and eternal pursuit of Family, will I hold my book in my hand, look back over the years, and say, "Oh. All that for this?"
Because being published is my goal. As much as I'd like to say I write for the love (and I do love writing), I'm driven forward by the possibility of having my work read. However, days I'm sleepy from a late writing night, too sleepy to be the mom I want to be, I have to ask myself, "What are you doing?"
I'd hate to come away from this venture knowing that one of my children missed out on something important because my head was busy creating other lives. Then again, I know writing is a part of me now. It forms who I am, and in many ways makes me a better mom.
I'd love your thoughts on this, especially if you have actually tasted playdough (real or metaphorical).