Isidra Mencos

The man ascended a steep mountain, his long white beard flying in the wind. As he arrived at the top, he paused, took a flute from his sash, and started playing. The melody bounced off the surrounding hills, filled the valley below and made the tree branches dance.

I once had my astral chart done by a wise man in Nepal. He predicted that I would have a child in my late thirties and publish a book and become a serious writer in my fifties. He was off by a few years. I had my son at forty-four years old, after multiple miscarriages.

Four years ago, at 57, I quit my plum corporate job to have more time for writing. Everybody said it took a lot of courage, but I knew I still harbored many fears. The fear that I now HAD to write, no more excuses. The fear that my writing wouldn’t be any good.