Originally written in March 2021 but lost in the ether
I’m officially confirmed as a writer and here’s the evidence.
I have a blank page and pen. I also have a passion, here it is, at the top of the blank page.
I’ve submitted for a competition and got absolutely nowhere, so that’s the ‘rejection’ box ticked.
I‘ve got the writer’s block down to a fine art.. To be fair I think it’s proximity to the ‘wound’ or the trauma that makes it extra difficult. This month creates extra challenges as there’s a pile-up of anniversaries, our weddings and Manjula’s death, but that’s an expected part of this particular journey.
I’m reading lots of fiction, including children’s, non fiction and insights into how to write. How much is being held by this decaying brain is another matter.
I must admit to liking young people’s story books. I like the pace, find them interesting and I more easily remember what I’ve read.
As the ‘passion’ would say “let’s see.”
It feels like it’s been weeks since I added to our story so I plan to have a different approach, set up my writing place, establish a routine and treat it as a ‘job.’
It’s written but as I’m a writer I’ll follow a norm and declare it just ain’t good enough
It’s going to be completely revised and restructured. I’ll break the memoir rules but I just don’t care.
Fourth update 2022 and I’m yet to start. I’ve slipped into a ‘can’t quite get my act-together phase’ I told you I was a writer.
In between the enormous gaps.