My children are no longer children and they may or may not read my blog.

They know I love words.

When they were little, I’d get a little elaborate in my explanation, get carried away in my telling of story meant to influence or remind.

Eyes rolled on little faces as the chance to tell them good things excited me so.

“Why do you talk that way?” they’d ask.

“Words are for using… if we  have them, we should use them.”

And I never let up on my love of word.

So, to have a mother who writes, I doubt they’re surprised.

They may or may not read my blog.

I wonder sometimes; but, carry on regardless.

I like to think they do, maybe find time to scan my posts and smile to themselves.

Even on some level find it special or on another level maybe feel a tiny bit happy for me to be doing something good for me that I love.

I’m sitting here on a Friday with dusky sky signaling end to a long, long week.

I remembered a conversation I’d meant to never forget, this little truth from a conversation about my “book” last month:

“You should let the story decide the number of pages.”

This, from my son as I replied to his question…”Well, how many pages have you written of your book and how many is it going to be?”

I answered, “maybe 250 or 300.”

And he paused, maybe thinking, “Why on earth am I talking to my mother like a friend about her dreams?” and then he left this little morsel of wisdom:

“Let the story decide it’s length. Write it until you’ve finished.”

My daughter read yesterday’s blog post.

She loved it; loves me,  she told me so.