It’s kind of ironic the last book I wrote was about a young woman who struggled to find her way back to who she had once been, to doing what she had once loved.  I say it’s ironic because that’s exactly what I’ve been going through for the past couple of months.  I have not written a word, or even had the desire to do so.  There has been an illness in my family and things were looking pretty dire.  It’s amazing how your creative juices can be completely doused when your entire being is consumed with the uncertainty and fear of losing a loved one.  When we write, the words come from our heart, from our soul.  If those parts of you are already at capacity, there is little time or desire to tell a story.  My son, who is an aspiring writer himself, was told by a co-worker that his book was not good.  I wondered if that person knew how painful that can be to a writer who has just put part of themselves on a platter for the world to dissect and hopefully treat kindly.  I have a feeling not.  Anyway, for as dire as the prognosis of my loved one was, there is a new ray of hope.  He is responding to an experimental treatment and the dark cloud that has been hanging over our family has scuttled quietly to the west.  Still there, still within our vision, but moving far enough away to allow a little bit of light into our world.  So for now….I can write.