I woke up this morning and came downstairs to write my last slice for this challenge. I settled into the chair with the broken back in my corner of the kitchen table, now cluttered with papers, pens, a random playing card, some knitting – more or less abandoned since the beginning of March – and inexplicably, a hammer. I turned on the computer.

And then I decided I needed to make tea. So I did.
And then I decided I should read some other slices to see what people were writing for this last day. So I did.
And as I read, I really wanted to write back. So I commented.
And then one of the kids needed some help with a game. So I helped.
And then, since I was up, I decided to start the laundry.
And then one of the boys’ friends called and invited him to go to a bike park. So I encouraged him to get ready.
And then since he was getting ready, I got dressed and ready, too.
And then the father said I should come see the bike park. So I did.
And then I came home and my husband went out and I decided it was time to write. Again.
And then I realized just how tired I was. So I took a nap.
And while I was napping the phone rang and the cat came in and my younger son needed some help.

And now I’m downstairs again, and I’m writing.
And this is my life. It is busy and full and complex. It involves people and trade-offs and interruptions of all sorts. It is loving and active, sometimes overwhelming and often joyful.

And this is what slicing every day for a month has taught me this year: that this is my life. And I can still write. I can write every day if I decide to. Or not. I am allowed to be a writer on my own terms in my real life. I can write around the edges and through the middle and in the spaces in between. It still counts.

And then I realized that I am a writer.

What a gift from Two Writing Teachers who created this amazing space to help us become writers, learners and, most of all, a community. Thank you!

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