A Sign

Oh, the hope. Some days I think Pandora should have been speared. Others, I'm grateful for the faintest of reasons to hope.

Last night, visiting my in-laws, I wake in the middle of the night, again, wondering why I torture myself trying to write and what's going to become of me and why did I give up my good job and these years of my life and all my money and . . . other expressions of angst reserved for the privileged with who have access to health care, nutritious foods, safe communities, etc.

It gets grim at 3 am.

I slide out of bed, careful not to wake my son who co-sleeps with me on overnight visits, put on my glasses. I trek to the bathroom and back, focused on my internal sturm und drung, but for some reason, there was a split-second break in the head chatter and I looked up at the stars casting steel light on the dining table through the half-circle window. Perfectly framed in the window is the Big Dipper. Right above the Big Dipper is Polaris. The Home Star. If you follow the Home Star, you can navigate your way anywhere.

Michael, in my novel Homestar, uses this knowledge to build hope first for him mother, that she will find her way home, and then for himself, that he will find his "true north."

I'm taking it as a sign. I feel somewhat embarassed, a superstitious oaf. But it happened, and being a writer, I'll take any kind of bone the universe throws me.

Homestar is being looked at right now. Wish me luck. Or wish upon a star.