It was January 2026. For six weeks, I suffered with icepick headaches, a sore jaw, fatigue, and a feeling that I was revisiting my autoimmune disease from 2017. It felt the same–lack of appetite, the feeling I was sick, rapid weight loss–but I couldn't account for a cough, my very sore neck, and those headaches that felt like ice picks were targeting my head in sharp jabs every few minutes.

Despite many edits, I just didn't know how to write yet, so didn't avoid common pitfalls that befall first-time writers: wordiness, "telling" not "showing", character head hopping, misuse of dialogue tags, misplaced modifiers, forgetting the timeline (or bouncing around in time), and the dreaded passive voice. They let me know what I needed to do to get my book back on track. I am truly indebted to them for their time and expertise.

Funny how I look at time now and feel urgency as if I've wasted most of my life doing, rushing, accomplishing. Funny how learning, being, and living don't feel like wasted time. Is time a concept that stretches and shrinks depending on how we think of it?

The rush of getting things done and going for a goal is addictive. Using a targeted approach and my perseverance, I lost weight, accomplished home projects, and went to night school, all to accomplish my goals and get ahead.

I was told, no doubt by a disapproving friend, that my grandfather's first wife was small in stature but mighty in spirit. After all, she gave birth to and raised seven children, who all turned out to be hardworking, responsible citizens. I was told that after raising her children, she took classes, probably at the University of B.C. I'm sure she was in her golden brain years then.