There's been a lot of talk in my neck of the woods about babies. Of my best friends, one has an 18-month-old, one has a six year old and one-year-old twins, and another is seriously contemplating starting a family sooner rather than later. I've even done some babysitting and spent more time lately with tiny humans than ever in my life.
And I'll admit it - I've had some Baby Fever over the past months (and it wasn't just me; The Hubs got a fair dose of it too).
But then I found out that one of my blogger buddies cleared that first big publishing hurdle - she got an agent. As I was reading her blog post about the experience (which you can find HERE), a feeling came over me that I didn't expect.
I didn't want a baby. I wanted a book - a book with my name on it.
In fact, I want a book way more than I ever thought I wanted a baby.
That may make me sound like a horrible person, but it's the truth. I'm not ruling kids out, I just want to become an author more than I want to become a parent. There are a multitude of factors that went in to me even contracting Baby Fever, but they are a little mired and weighty, so suffice it to say that in these past months when my depression got so bad, I lost myself a little and was looking for things that might help bring me some hope for the future. But being a mother was never a dream of mine. An eventuality maybe, but not a dream.
Being an author is my dream.
Since the Baby Fever has broken (and my depression is well in-hand thanks to the new meds), I feel the certainty of that dream. Not the certainty that it will happen in the way I wish it (because I have no control over that), but the certainty that I want it to happen and will do what is in my power to make it happen.
And now, without looking for it, I find that I have hope to spare.