It seems ironic that, as a writer (at least I like to call myself that!), and having given up full-time employment to perfect my craft, I'm not finding the time to sit down to do it; it's an annoying fact. Why? Because I'm resistant to value it on equal standing with everything else I do. It's easier to justify myself when I'm working at a mainstream job, when I'm studying to create a new pathway, when I'm 'doing' for my family. I teach others how to write a novel and don't sit down to do it myself. Every now and then I have to remind myself of why I chose a new direction in my life. The pages of my leather-bound journal hold the promise of my new novel. A few weeks ago they were open in an invitation for me to write; lately that journal shifts loosely in the bottom of my bag, or worse, is left at home. But there is a beacon, calling me to write, to remember why I do it. It will arrive any day now in the mail. I'm excited, and know that I'll tremble just a little when it comes. I'll tear open the wrapper, but will be anxious that this exquisite pleasure will be over too soon; there might be a five year wait again until the next time. Tim Winton, my beacon.