Part b: Ouch. I'm avoiding honesty just lately. The reason being the way I've been super busy for most of this year. I had a baby around five months ago and have helped hubby through this semester of his course in youth work. It's been a real hard slog, not only for me.

My eldest daughter just turned 17 and my middle child is having his 15th birthday in a couple more weeks. Hubby is just about done with all this course work. Right now he's in the work experience part of the course. Kind of funny for him, as he's one of the older members of the class. He's actually had plenty of real life work experience, anyway.

I haven't been spending much time writing, as in productive writing that leads to a finished product. I've written heaps in my journal, jotted down ideas and played with thoughts. It's been too crazy for much else. My mind is brimming over with all the things I want to achieve.

But what time can I really give to writing consistently?

Mornings. I can devote an hour each morning, so long as no one else is around. If it's just bubby and me, I can spend a good solid hour on writing, perhaps more. I'll say an hour, though and keep myself out of real trouble.

I could possibly muse and toy on all this further. In a way, I should have thought more deeply on the earlier entry. No worries, though, there's not much else to say.

Or is there? Should I mention the time a man came to my dreams and stood beside my bed, silent and awesome. I didn't fear him. He eminated a sense of loss, of love, of fear, and a great burden. I didn't know what his story was. Not then. A few months later I attempted to write a novel in a week; an internet challenge I'd discovered. I didn't actually write the entire novel, but did get down some 40,000 words. It was on the last day of the challenge that I finally discovered what this man's story was. And what a story he has.

It took me the entire week to mine what he'd wanted to tell me. I spent that day pounding out the burden he carries. I cried as I wrote. I knew the reason for his burden. This was when the story suddenly was no longer hard to write. But is that story finished? No. It's one of the many sitting here waiting the finishing touches. There are five, or is it six, others in various stages. They're either first drafts, partial drafts, second or even third drafts.

I've learnt something with every novel I've written, though.

Enough for tonight. Hubby sits beside me playing Age of Empires. The baby is sleeping and the big kids are playing with their mobile phones.