There is little humor in looking back on one’s musings to find a year has slipped away with little progress. I was planning to finish the edit for book 2 a year ago. And here I am in a coffee shop over a year later, trying to push this book out the door. It’s the baby that will not be born or some other poorly devised metaphor.

I’ve learned so much about the craft of writing in the past few years. About organization, intent, clarity, easing bloat, finding voice, building character, corralling thoughts. Really, this whole journey has been therapy for my scatter-prone head. Realizing I’ve got to make time for what I want. And when I’ve made that time, organizing it and using it well. Structure.

I never thought I would say how much I crave structure. Wait, that’s not quite right. I don’t crave structure at all. Rather, I crave disaster. I desire mess. I long for undisciplined, unexamined, sliding through life. But I also love to make. And making takes structure. And so I find myself reaching for it in spite of my ill cravings for the antithesis.

How about you?