I was a writer in my youth. I spent my free time alone, writing poems, short stories and outlines of books I was going to write someday. I hid the papers filled with my words in a shoebox. I think the shoebox was mistaken for trash one day; what I know is I looked for it and it was gone. I probably cried about the loss of those words, those feelings and ideas I had written down.  But in time I moved on to other things and left behind my writing aspirations.

Now, as a single mother with a demanding job, two teens and a dog, I am only a writer in my dreams. I need a brain hobby, though, and I feel compelled to go after my dream, even if it’s just via a blog, so here I go. I won’t fill up a literal shoebox with my written reflections. This blog will be the substitute –  a figurative shoebox that I will fill with my thoughts, my feelings, my  struggles, my happiness – my life.