Those that think they know say that a writer should always find time to write, and that no excuses are acceptable. Really?
At the beginning of this month I was on a roll, writing novel chapters on trains, but I’m ashamed to say, Dear Reader, that I haven’t written a word since. Not even a comma. And, keen watchers of this blog – like you, DR – will have noted that I didn’t post last week on this blog, although I did take part in the Katherine Blessan blog tour on the Dear Reader blog.
So what major tragedies have occurred in the Johnson household, so as to prevent me writing? Er, none, DR. It’s just that life and work has got in the way, finishing off the last few courses I was teaching, visiting friends and family, and looking after grandchildren last week, and tomorrow. I’m typing this post on my iPad on the bed settee in my daughter’s living room, at 11.30pm. Next week we’re off on hols in Ireland.
I can provide a list of things I should’ve done and have not done, including not writing story for my writing group on Tuesday, not taking part in Wendy H Jones’s webinar this evening, not making curtains for spare bedroom and not deadheading roses in garden. Are proper writers a different breed? Do they not have roses or families? Do they not have to work? Do they not have husbands they like to spend time with occasionally? (He and I went to Anglesey Abbey today – see photo below of the tiger lilies in the Anglesey Abbey formal garden, which we would like to havin our garden.)
Am I missing something?