This sounds a wee bit pretentious, but two weeks ago I was in Florence. Yes, that Florence. My sister-in-law Terri and I took a break from our tour and went off to see the Medici private home. Unlike many of the other tourist sites we'd visited in previous days, we practically had the place to ourselves.
As always, at the back of my mind, I was musing about what the future held for me as a writer and my two middle-grade novels still waiting for a home. I'd started to ask The Universe in earnest for a sign as to whether I should just let this dream go. The question popped into my head again just as I turned my head and saw a large hour glass on a shelf.
The sand had run out.
Oh, dear.
Since returning home, I've chosen to "reinterpret" that sign. I don't think my dream of being a published writer is dead, or past it's appointed hour, but I do think the end of something is around the corner. A part of life has run its full course. There is an ending in my future. But, like all endings, this will open the door to a new beginning.
After all, when an hour glass runs out, you turn it over.
As always, at the back of my mind, I was musing about what the future held for me as a writer and my two middle-grade novels still waiting for a home. I'd started to ask The Universe in earnest for a sign as to whether I should just let this dream go. The question popped into my head again just as I turned my head and saw a large hour glass on a shelf.
The sand had run out.
Oh, dear.
Since returning home, I've chosen to "reinterpret" that sign. I don't think my dream of being a published writer is dead, or past it's appointed hour, but I do think the end of something is around the corner. A part of life has run its full course. There is an ending in my future. But, like all endings, this will open the door to a new beginning.
After all, when an hour glass runs out, you turn it over.
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