I am still here.
The past
month or so has seen work life speed up and writing life slow down.
I've felt disconnected from the writing side of myself so to balance
things out I had a pull to revisiting some non-fiction. It's done the trick. I feel connected again. Once a diarist always a diarist?
This particular bit of writing started out as a letter for The Letters Page. They didn't accept it for publication, but I see why now. It was quite rushed, I had more to say than I could in 500 words. The version I've written this week is twice that.
So, a good experience.
But writing about real life opens the door to the old inner critic. She wants to know why I'm writing this. What I'm going to do with it. Because it's quite personal, you know. Are you going to put it in your blog? Might do. Why would you do that? Attention seeker. No, not that exactly. To communicate. To share. Share what a weirdo you were when you were eight? What if (insert person who might judge you negatively) reads it? Well so what. I'm not that bothered about what that person thinks. Aren't you? Why you thinking about it then? Seriously, fuck off now. You're such a drain.
etc.
I will likely share the letter with you in the next few days. Check back soon.
