Crossroads always tell the tale.

My writing coordinator at the college where I tutor took me to lunch two Sundays ago. We went to the Caridad Restaurant in the Bronx. When I wasn't seriously wolfing my yellow rice, beans, and roasted pork, I was talking and listening to her. I value her ideas and thoughts on writing. She is a several times published playwright with produced plays. This past summer, I attended a reading of one of her works, and I left flabbergasted at the array, tightness, synchronized simplicity and exorbitant ability of her words. So when she mentioned the writing group she is a member of I quickly choked down my forkful of rice and asked if I could be a member, too?

She looked at me, swallowed her own mouthful of rice and said, "No. This is a serious group. We are all published writers with produced plays." Now, you might have read that as an insult to me, but I heard the Universe loud and clear saying, "Girl, it's time to step up your game!"

I accepted what she said. Totally understood. And if I had a body of work, I'd try to weasel my way in to her group, but I don't. Lots of unfinished work is what would be written on my tombstone if I were to exit stage left today. So I understand.

But I am looking for a writer's group and will find one or gather up my own. And everyone will be let in. All they need is a thick skin and something of paper quality in their meager, non-published hands. It's never too late. Because while I've been spending my life with a brother and sister to babysit, foolish times to be had, daughters to raise, ill parents to tend, careers to pursue, and lots of TV time burnt out on the couch, I've still had time to write. And the truth is that for all the milestones and occurrences in my life, these were always experiences to partner with writing.

Time to wake up from the dream and to live it. Two days ago, I saw a spot in my bedroom that I envisioned where a desk could be placed  to write, a room away from the TV, and my Verizon card for Internet in the other room, too. I asked the Universe to help me find a great table to go there. Last night,  while walking home from the train, two doors from me was a card table, put out for anyone who wanted it. I lugged it upstairs, the metal of the its edges clanking against our marble stairs, bringing one tenant out into the stairwell to see who was creating such a horrible noise in the early evening? It was me.

The card table is a bit wide and takes up the entire space, and I am glad as I will today put all my books on it that I study and use for reference and this table will hold all my notebooks and projects. And I will sit here and work, rearrange the bedroom furniture if need be, and I will find a way to sit there for hours everyday and write, dream, think, and produce.

And I will take my coordinator/writer friend to lunch and we will swim in yellow rice; choke on flan and gulp coffee with sweet, thick milk. And I will smile and fling beans at the Universe. "Take that!" I will say, my heart as full as my stomach.