The Promise: Can she do it?

I have three books in the closet.
Let me clarify. I sometimes like to think of them as still being at the bottom of a stack of disheveled prose in the bottom of the closet where I found them - after all, they hibernated there for more than a decade - actually, I set them free a couple of years ago. They now reside in plain view. On my desk. Still somewhat disheveled, but shaping up.

I made a promise to myself all those years ago. That one day, I would peek inside the closet and resurrect the jumbled-up-me that lay scrambled under college books and baby booties on the floor of that tee-tiny cell.
The day finally came when I no longer had diaper excuses, thesis deadlines, or mother exhaustion; pity parties, emotional wrenching, and procrastination fell victim to one powerful motivator -

The promise.

It is here.
It is now.
I promised myself that I would finish and publish my first book by the time I turned fifty.
I have exactly 101 days, 7 hours and 33 minutes.

I was right to begin with. There are 3 books in the closet; three more I've yet to start. I've spent the last several years penning epiphanies onto the pages I'm staring at right now. Piling up in living reams around my feet, are story lines and twists I resolve in dreams, then get up to write down in the wee hours of the morning
- still lovingly scrawled, at times, by hand; on my desk, resting in my lap, sprawled naked on the floor, stored on my floppies, and borne of the better part of the guts and refuse of my life -as it were - screams the closing of a chapter in the middle of the night.

One fictional meandering of suspense and psychological intrigue, one compilation of stories I gathered in storms, and one honest true tale of the bravest boy I know.

One is a love story, one is a love story, the other is a love story.
Here's my challenge to you: every now and then, when you're blog cruisin' and decide to stop in to say hello...........how about giving me a swift-kick-in-the-writers-pants to keep me going. I need SOMEBODY to hold me accountable for this metaphorical mystery that keeps piling up in my head and spilling out onto the paper before the sun comes up.
It must not go back in the closet.
I would never forgive myself.

Thank you, in advance.

And by the way, we're gonna have one helluva party.