A choice

It's almost 4 am. I'm writing. My husband and the dog are both snoring.

My brain is spinning. Everything is so packed in. Thoughts swirl from yesterday. Work had me in a tizzy. I've realized that I pick up energies very easily. 

But this morning I breathe. And breathe. My life is good. I'm good. A good friend of mine that asked me to be in a literary anthology sends me a complimentary email about my story. It's a new story. Not overworked to death. It's hybrid as far as genre, memoir and poetry. My MFA class wasn't sure about the hybrid form but I liked it and left it as is. 

It's satisfying when people get my work. Especially when it's people I admire.

I guess that's what I get from writing that I don't get elsewhere. Public defense is a mostly thankless job. The stress is enormous, and when you do well, no one really acknowledges it. That's okay. But I need acknowledgement and appreciation and I get that from writing. 

Days like today, when I'm up at 4 am contemplating my life, are important. I think to myself, asking internally, why do I still practice law when creative writing is what I love and probably what I'm best at? 

The answer: It's because I choose to. 

I lay in bed and tell myself that in my head, over and over. It's a choice. I'm not trapped there. It's a choice. A choice.