In less than three months, I will be one of 15 participants to attend a writing workshop with author Cheryl Strayed, perhaps, best known for her New York Times Bestselling memoir “Wild.”

The theme of the workshop is “The Story You Have to Tell.” Last night, I received an email from the coordinator with a gentle reminder about our pending gathering. Butterflies in my stomach quickly sank to leaden dread.

I am not excited, because I feel like a mess.

The story you have to tell…the story you have to tell…what’s the story I have to tell?

I seek, but do not find.

This morning I look within, searching for the smallest smattering of words to click upon the screen of my sporadic blog. My well is empty with echo.

Instead of prose at 5am, I’m sending RSVP’s to sixth-grade, birthday party E-vites. Emailing teachers about forms required for school events. Tracking shipment details on a Halloween mask we hope will make it to the post office before the 31st.

I do not feel wild.

I feel domestic.

This is not the worst thing in the world, by far. But it feels like death to an artist.

I question all.

Yet, I will keep seeking.

Three months to find a story that matters.