Every time I doubt if I should even try to be a writer, the universe sends a sign. It can be a tiny, subtle thing or a big, blazing, neon, in my face, impossible to ignore, sign. I was meant to write this morning but didn’t, and felt simultaneously guilty and unworthy all day.
When I was teaching the elementary students today, I opened their speech book and there was the prompt “What kind of book would you write? Why?” I smiled, as I’m sure this was the universe pointing at me and asking the question. The children all came up with their answers. Most said they’d write manga. To answer, I’d write YA dystopian fiction. Why? Because I have to write and I enjoy reading YA fiction.
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