Forty years ago, I was photographed on my first day of school.
Shielding my eyes from the bright morning sun, I looked into the camera without the slightest idea of what the future held in store.
Recently I returned to the scene of that photo for a "half time" check-in: if gene patterns held, half of that future had been lived and half remained. Again I covered my eyes, but now I looked up into a sky that held optimism and promise.
Three years ago this fall, I took an inspiring writing workshop which redirected my energies from the non-fiction writing I'd done for many years to a then-moribund novel.
85,000 words and countless re-writes later, I'm in the final stretch of edits, working on a book proposal, and diving into my next venture: an MFA-Creative Writing program.
Where will this path lead?
I honestly don't know.
Will I become a creative writing teacher?
A grant writer?
An editor in a publishing house?
Will there be opportunities that I can't foresee?
What I do know is that I'm excited about the journey.