In a perfect world, someone who wanted to write (me) someone who had the aptitude to write (again, me), someone who had the ideas to put on on paper (once again, ME) would be able to find the time to do so.
I have author written after my name here and there. I have book covers on the wall of my office. I even have a congratulatory plaque on my office wall stating that I had my first book published in 1982. So I know I can do it.
Trouble it, reality doesn’t think like I do.
I’m not, though.
I have a bad history of being roped into doing things that I didn’t intend to do. My father was a jack of all trades, and I inherited that from him. And being a JOAT, I inherit things like redesigning a university website even though I have no training in website design. That’s on top of being a full-time teacher, of course. This too shall pass, I keep telling myself, and then I will be back to doing what I know, what I love, what I was born to do.
I also keep remembering the words of my friend and fellow editor from Pacific Press days, Randy Maxwell: Those who are going to write find a way to do it, regardless.
Am I just making excuses? Or am I truly as busy as I think I am?