Hard Rock Cafe

I treat my writing like a privilege. It comes after editing the work of others and helping children learn proper grammar while developing their own style and voice. It comes after making sure my child's homework is done and making sure she is fed, clothes, and educated. It comes after everything. Scraps of stories and poems languish , missing deadlines and submission dates. There is no room of my own. My writing is interrupted constantly by requests and vacuuming and cries for food and attention and I feel guilty saying no, I am working on something that is mine. Thus I devalue my own work, my own voice.