Could I make it as a writer? I wonder. The dream of being a professional writer has followed me through life like an incessant puppy that simply wants to play fetch. But I’m too busy adulting to toss the ball. Deadlines, commitments, responsibilities force me to pet the pup on the head to pacify him, promising I will come back to play later. Later never really comes. Or at least, it hasn’t yet.

Over the last several months, I’ve lost sleep from the constant whimper and whines. Sleeping in is out of the question, since Fido is ready for the day. My lifelong dream barks for me to get out of bed to play. The sand of my life is halfway through the hourglass with the passing of another birthday. Time appears to slip by faster and faster. It’s time. No, it’s beyond time to take this yapping dream of mine to the park, take its leash off, and let it run free until his heart is content.

I wonder. Could I make it as a writer?