The puddle that has been my mind for the past year, the sudden initiation into the world of motherhood, my frantic search for a proper career in the face of spectacularly under-challenging, six fifty an hour jobs, the return to basics, to what I love...it all amounts to this: I want to write.

No doubt this will strike some as a kind of heresy. In my insecurity I can almost hear the sniggers reaching me through the waves of my wireless Broadband. The word 'naive' comes to mind. More uncomfortably, so does the word 'pretentious'.
I know that intending to write, particularly for profit, is a dream that I share with many. I have heard all about endless rejections, and the need for thick skin, and the sting of criticism, all the more painful when well aimed and delivered. I know that my chances of ever seeing my work in actual print are slim, slim, slim. I might as well decide on pop star as a career and enrol on the next series of the X Factor.

But write I will. Not because it will make me rich or because I believe my talent to be of astronomical proportions, and not (and this I say, admittedly, with less confidence) because writing fits as a nice accessory with a certain self image that I aspire to.
I will write, mostly, because writing is truly the one thing that can survive in the fickle environment of my heart. The thing that as the days and the years go by, I always return to, like a loyal friend. The thing that can keep me working late into the night when my alarm clock goes off promptly at six forty five. The thing that I can carry in my mind, on the dullest work days, like a wonderful secret.

I love writing. Dedication is no sacrifice. Work is no work. It's as simple as that.