In Judaism, when someone dies, the family sits shiva for up to seven days.

This year will serve as a training camp or boot camp for me as a writer, just as someone might train for a marathon.

Every day as we descend the stairs out of my school building, I chant a particular call and response with my students.  

Uh oh. I fell asleep in the middle of this morning’s hour!

Reading Portia Nelson’s Autobiography in Five Short Chapters. 

Welcome to your new lives. 

I needed to ask myself whether doing this writing challenge seems selfish. . . I wondered if I might put this hour to better use.

My dad wore the scars of his experiences the only way he could — on his body for everyone to see.

A little known fact about me: I hoard pens.

How many generations does it take for trauma to work its way out of the blood stream?

So, this brings me to the elephant in this particular room: COVID.

#1. I must write 1 hour per day for the next 365 days.

#6. If I fail, I must donate big money to a cause that I hate!

I have never imagined my biological dad as anything but an absence — a void.

I aim to write for one hour per day, every day, for the next year. If that doesn’t turn me into a writer, I’m not sure what will.