So December 9th is my birthday. Another year flies by, and another year older. I'm still young enough, but my sons are getting big. My oldest is 18, and my youngest is 12. My oldest played football in college, and my youngest had his first year in Pop Warner. That was a lot of time and effort, that Pop Warner. More than the high school years for my other son.
But the day will come when my sons move out to go to college, and then, if they're anything like me and my brother and sisters, they'll never move back. That will kill me. But I'll have more time to write books, no?
Don't think so. My wife is the one who is always demanding my time. She's the one who considers my book writing efforts as direct competition for my attention. I swear I give her more attention than I give my books. Had I given my books more attention, they'd all be finished by now. All five of them. And then some.
But whatever. I'll have to remember one thing. It's your family that matters more than anything, not your art, or your music, or your writing. Your wife, your sons, and maybe even your students, if you're a teacher like I am. Writing is great, though. You get to create your own worlds, your own characters, and your own events. Your own antagonists and villains, and even entire races of alien life.
But the latter would be directly tied in to my sci fi story I began writing years ago, and adapted into a graphic novel, that I never finished. I've been thinking of finishing it lately. Boy, would my wife get mad at me then!
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