They say a writer writes. I have never had enough time to make this true in the way I want it to be true. I am starving for time to write. Ideas are jumbled up in my head, stacked in overflowing mental boxes, lying unsorted scattering the floor of my inner sanctum… I need to write daily. Not just the responses to the emails, the endless list of must be done nows, not just the academic and research related writing, not just the proposals, and applications, but gut stuff.  I need to write from my soul, or the top of my head, or from the present angst, or future hopes; I need to write what I want to write. I need to write, even if no one reads it, even if I trash it after writing it, but it must be written down not just jotted on the ever changing 50 track to do list in my crowded head. I should set some goal of so many words per day. We’ll get to that, for now it’s my meditation to take back my right to create. No more marking time until I have time. I hereby acknowledge that I have as much time as anyone I have ever admired. Time is not the problem nor is it my enemy. It simply is; and I place upon myself the task of being a doer not merely a thinker. I am either a writer or I simply think of myself as a writer. Writers write.