It’s that time of the year again. The sun is out enough to chase away winter grays, both perceived and felt. The air is warm, although still dry enough to crack the skin around knuckles.

I’ve traded tea for coffee and pull myself out of bed before the sun to run and read and journal, allowing myself the reprieve of being alone inside my mind before the day begins. Before the child makes a fuss about getting up and breakfast must be made and lunch assembled. Before greetings and meetings and long hours sifting through code unti–ahah!–I find the “-” where a “_” should be.

But it’s a new year. We say it since January 1st, but we feel it in the spring.

I feel it now.

The WIP I’ve set aside for months, dedicating energy to journaling and vlogging instead of storytelling, calls me. My characters resurrect with the flowers, whose seeds have waited patiently for sun. I’m ready to write.

It’s time to write.

But every season is the time to write. Every day. I’m always writing. It’s just not always my WIP, words plopped into the tithe jar of my manuscript that I hope, somehow, by karma or the fruition of faith or the sacrifice of generosity (a bit of an oxymoron), produces a crop in five or ten years.

Sometimes all I do is write a poem, and a short one at that. Perhaps just two thoughts on paper that may morph into a story two years down the line. Maybe a blog post or an idea for a video. Often, two or three pages in my journal.

But all this is writing. And it’s good.

Yesterday was the time to write. Today, also. And tomorrow. Winter and summer, fall and spring. What I write may look different. Will look different.

Deep down (not so deep, really), I am a writer. I write. Regardless of word counts, seat time, etc., I write.

And I invite you to write.

Happy Spring, y’all!