Maybe God doesn't want me to be a writer...

I have a passion for writing. A deep, sincere calling. I always have. I have written many stories the others will never read, simply for my enjoyment. In the past year, since I have truly started to consider the option of becoming a published author, I have prayed...often. I am believer in Christ and a believer in prayer. I am also a believer that sometimes, God likes to toy with us.

At the end of the last school year, I was finishing up what I consider to be my best work to date. The characters and plot ricocheted around my head like a song you can't stop thinking about. I HAD to get it on paper... or at least on the computer screen.

During the spring, I am blessed with some free time at work. I was using every minute of it ( shh~ don't tell!) to get this story finished. The problem? Every time I would get "in the zone" so to speak. Some thing would happen to remind me I was a teacher.

At first I thought it was coincidence. I start writing and my classroom phone rings to inform me a parent is there to pick a recommendation for a former student. This particular parent, whom I love dearly, took the time to tell me what a talent educator she felt I was and what a positive impact I had on her son's life. That is a great feeling.

Then it happened again, I started writing and a former student, home from college for a weekend visit popped in. And it happened again! Another student from TWO YEARS before stopped in to say hello , let me know he had joined the military and would be leaving for Iraq soon.

I love these people. I truly, truly do love them. They have impacted my life every bit as much as I impacted theirs. I began to question if God was trying to show me that education is where I belong... where I should stay.

I wrote often this summer. But not as much as I could have... After all, I do still have two children who need attention and taxiing to various activities. I started a new manuscript ( I am trying to get in the habit of calling them that... Story seems too trivial). Parts of it are really good, but parts of it still need much revision and I am no where near the end yet. As of yesterday, it had not been backed up anywhere. The only copy was on my laptop.

You think I would have learned my lesson when I lost the first 25 pages of a new manuscript during a hard drive crash. But I didn't. The 45 pages of my latest were here on this computer. Completely vulnerable. A chance I was willing to take.... until my youngest spilled an entire 32 ounce cup of water on to the computer.

At first, everything seemed fine. I dried it all. The computer booted up and all was well. Until I started viewing some pictures.Then, after a quiet buzzing noise, the screen went blank and the computer would not reboot.

I spent the next two hours cleaning the house. Moving from room to room, putting away clutter, toys and laundry... praying I had not once again lost everything on my laptop. Allowing the doubt to creep in... Maybe God really does not want me to be a writer.

I wrestled with this thought the whole time. I even had a flashback to story I wrote when I was in the sixth grade. I was proud of this story. So proud, I took it every where with me for the week after I wrote it. I am not sure why, but I know it must have made since to my 11 year old self. I was riding in the back of my mom's Beretta, my dad was driving. For some reason, I had put the story in the back window. He rolled down the passenger window and the wind grabbed it.

It was gone. I still remember screaming and looking out the back window as the papers scattered over the highway. Then I cried.

That was before computers. The story was handwritten on spiral notebook paper. There was no back up. I never rewrote that story. I can barely remember the plot now. But I remember the devastation I felt. I got a fresh taste of it yesterday while staring at a blank computer screen.

Today my computer is fine. My latest manuscript is still here and now has been copied to a back up DVD.

I am still leery though. Maybe God doesn't want me to be a writer... or maybe he just wanted me to get off my butt and clean my house.