Gemotions

He stared at the spidery handwriting. "Write a novel." His mother had always been a dreamer. The irony wasn't lost on him. He, a practical man, sat in his father’s study, his own desk filled with financial reports. The scent of old books and pipe tobacco clung to the air.

He picked up a pen and absently tapped it against the list. He could see himself doing it. But the thought of actually following through with it felt like climbing a mountain. He set the pen down. He had bills to pay, responsibilities. The list remained on the desk, a silent reproach.