The Time Bomb

Every once in awhile, a new e-mail arrives in my inbox carrying a FP review alert for EP. These reviews always end up making my day -- little bursts of encouragement, some external form of validation that I can actually write for shit. These lovely reviewers usually ask me if I'll ever continue the story.

The thing is, in my head -- it's never stopped. If anything, I've gotten to know my darlings better than ever. As I've grown, they -- Charlotte, Rory, Rhys, and the others -- have grown within me. Especially Rory. As I've gotten wiser these last five years, I've come to understand her complexity so much better. My lack of tangible results might discredit me, but deep down I am still aching to write.

My mother is an artist. Her creative output diminished as she put aside her artwork to raise me and my brother. Now that my brother is officially heading off to Harvard this fall, she has started painting again. When I jokingly texted her back in April about my brother's college acceptances -- "Are you crying tears of joy?" -- she literally texted back: "No, I am not crying. Now, I can focus on my painting project. I am going to be a great artist."

I am only 21 years old, and admittedly, the thought of having children hasn't even crossed my mind. At first, I couldn't fathom the idea of deferring writing the same way my mother deferred painting for twenty years until her children grew up. But in a different way, I am doing the same thing. My creative output has decreased so dramatically in the last three years as I've put aside writing for college-work and other career-oriented business.

But the thing is, I don't know how long my conscience is willing to hold things off for. I can't explain why, but in my head, my desire to finish writing EP is strapped to a ticking time bomb. My biggest fear is waking up one morning and realizing that I will never finish writing the story. My mother, for all our dramatic ups and downs, could not have been a better mother to me. But I wonder if there's even a tiniest hint of regret or doubt. I wonder if her declaration of becoming a "great artist" was something she once said thirty years ago at my age.