As a fiction writer, I spend a great deal of time in my own world developing characters and creating plotlines, attempting to weave them together in a way that’s both unique and beautifully wrought. That’s the surface-level act of writing a story. While it began as a creative outlet during the chaos of raising children, it’s evolved into so much more for me than just an outpouring of words and ideas. It’s become a meditative space, an escape from the minutiae of everyday life and the constant tug of obligations that come with being a woman. It’s the only time I can truly disappear from the world and toil away at attempting to create something truly extraordinary. It’s a lofty goal—most of the time I’m entirely frustrated, recrafting a paragraph or even a sentence over and over and still finding it lacking. But every now and then something magical happens: the words come easily, align and flow, expressing my intention in a profound and unique way. It’s a rare occurrence, but when it does it’s transformative.