I call myself a writer. Not out loud. But right now I’m doing what would have sent me into fits 10 years ago. I’m doing nothing. At least when it comes to my writing. Funnily enough, there is no guilt. I hope it comes back to me, that willingness to spend months or even years working on something that might not get done or might not measure up. There are manuscripts that are like my children. Except they aren’t. Those pages will be waiting when my children are gone. Maybe I’ll dust them off or start something new when life slows down. Maybe I won’t. I’ve given enough for my craft. There are no regrets andI hope I am not finished. But that passion does not own me anymore. My wife does. My children do. Maybe one day my bride and I will take to the open road and travel. Maybe I will find the time and energy to search my memories for things that matter, and engage, and entertain. Until then I am happy to piddle with a few words and embrace my role as a husband and father. The written word is timeless, but both of those jobs are on borrowed time.