My NaNoWriMo word count shames me. I owe another writer interview answers. I’m supposed to reach out to a few other writers about co-promotion. I need to market. I need to plan. I need to write.
Yet there’s a tiny, sick little boy at my side, asking for Mommy’s comfort. How long will those tiny hands and tinier voice reach out to me, a source of love in his world?
Oh Bash. You are the source of love today.
I left writing behind that day to nestle with Bash and Hoppy to read Care Bears, talk about school, Christmas, and any think his little six-year-old mind could think. At one point he looked outside and saw the half-moon, pale and shy in the blue sky. “Look, Mommy, a Dream Moon!”
What kind of dreams does the Dream Moon give?
“Dreams of looooove,” he says with that sly grin of his, eyes all squinty. Then his forehead furrows. “Or nightmares. That’s why you have to go to the Apple Castle and talk to Prince Hoppy.” And so the story went, filled with candy races and carrot swords.
Most stories we read contain sacrifices a bit more grandiose than lost writing time.