I wrote a book a few years ago which was published and did rather well much to my delight and to be honest, surprise. It was an autobiographical account of becoming a Mum brought on by the shock of relinquishing my title of the wild woman of wonga and turning into a confused, helpless balloon in charge of the most delicious baby on the planet. It still available from some wheelbarrow on the A5 via Amazon.
That was bloody years ago and this is not a plug for ye olde dusty tome I promise. It is to illustrate just because I churned out my diary in public it is not the same as writing writing.
Since then, I have dabbled scrabbled, noted and scrawled. Blogged, raged, whispered, railed against the machine and done a thousand different things. But always rumbling in the pit of my heart was the belief I could one day write a novel. A book that is not about me me me. A work of fiction. And so it begins…….
I am exploring all the questions which have made up the battery of excuses as to why I haven’t done it and this time I am bloody well going to finish it. However hard. Part of that process is to be honest about my commitment to writing this elusive thing and that is why ye old blog is to reignited with a view to putting out in the ether on this very page how I am progressing, or not. Why I am progressing or not. And how much gin I am drinking or wine.
So here goes………JULY 2017.