I love to write; it is much easier than talking.  

I have a voice that is clear, I cannot mumble on a page.  

The ideas I have, my stories, and my characters all shape me.  

I have hundreds of notes, split between paper and my digital notepad.   

I keep pages of information for later use.   

I sort sheets unpacking my children, some are old and some more recent.   

Some have become different people than when I started designing them.  

They are my escape.   

When they cry, I can cry. When they are happy, I feel lighter.   

I know their path better than my own sometimes.   

But the days I am not writing I mourn for putting their lives on hold,   

to make them wait for me.  

I have so much in store whenever I bring myself to continue.  

I will never stop wanting to create.  

I want to finish their stories as I make my own.   

Pencil to paper, fingers to keyboard.   

I will go on.  

If I were to die, then they would too, and I want them to live.   

I will go on.  

But it must be perfect, I do not know if I am able to make what I want a reality.  

I must go on.   

I will have my story.