Sarah in Real Life

I sometimes set aside days just for writing.
And then I sit. And I write. Usually just a few paragraphs. In a day.
Sometimes I cannot wait to write. I cannot engage in another activity, even sleep, until I've written.

When I was a little girl, canned pineapple was a popular food in our house. My mom loved it, and quite frankly, I was always a fan of anything sweet, so I loved it, too. Depending on who craved the pineapple first, one of us would retrieve a can, pull out the can opener, and split the fruit with whomever happened to be around and hungry. But the juice was always drained into a glass, and it was something special. Sometimes we'd share the glass, sometimes one of us would be gracious and bestow the entire glass on one particular person. The juice was a treat, the contents of a can of fruit that I would have otherwise thrown away. Writing is pineapple juice drained from a can. It is the ability to extract something lovely from the ordinary.

I want to be a writer. I want to publish a book. In order to be a writer, I am required to write. But to be quite honest, I am really not sure how to go about writing an entire book that someone might actually buy and then read. But it seems I have always wanted to write a book, which means I at least have to try. I at least have to try. Because I refuse to wait until I'm older to persue the things I want to do. I refuse to wait until I "feel" like an adult to do "adult things." I've asked around- no one who I see as an adult feels like one.

So here it is. An opportunity to witness by attempts at creating a book that people (other than my adoring family and friends) might want to read, set goals and reach them, and just be very honest about life.

Welcome.