I have this story I'm writing.
About fables and fairy tales.
Reading between the lines and jumping into stories.
And all sorts of wonderful adventures.
I imagined it up for one reason alone.
To read to my someday children.
As they curl up between wrinkled sheets.
Propped up on pillows.
Begging for one more chapter before they have to go to sleep.
But sometimes, I become stuck.
Whether it's because of writer's block.
Or because I let someone read the story so far.
And receive critical comments cloaked in constructive criticism.
Or because I get lost in daily life.
And can't seem to find the time to scribble.
So, I push the story and the characters aside.
For weeks on end.
Wondering whether I'll ever return.
Wondering whether those someday children will ever exist.
But then, by chance.
I'll think of something clever.
And I love those moments.
When I find my way back.
To my story.
And I imagine my someday children again.
And how they'll clasp their hands together in anticipation.
And giggle at the characters who'll come alive before their eyes.
As they lay curled up between those wrinkled sheets.
Propped up against those pillows.
Just begging for another chapter before they have to go to sleep.
Which, of course, I'll concede to.
Reading another chapter, that is.
Because I'll be a sucker.
For those someday children of ours.