On the subject of Writing, which has become a big issue with me, I’m quite ashamed that I have done very little of late. It isn’t that I have nothing to say – I’m a woman, after all – it’s that I seem to be drowning in “more important things”. Perhaps, Heaven forbid, it’s an age thing. Well, I freely admit it takes me all day to do a fraction of what I once achieved in a couple of hours.
So I’m starting to feel a little sorry for myself as I stare down another of those annual milestones that are better ignored. Still not a famous author. Not even a minor one. Whilst I never was much of a quitter, I have to face the reality that, if I’m remembered at all, it won’t be for my writing. Perhaps the site where they chuck my ashes will be marked in some way? How about a plaque that says: Mary Warwick, No Famous Author, But A Well Intentioned One? Nah! With luck those ashes will be borne away on the breeze, much as I would wish to be. Just 10,000 feet will do.
Why then, on such a fabulous winter’s day, with a cloudless, boundless blue sky and a gale blowing, have I come to the conclusion that what lies ahead is a diminishing future with insufficient time remaining to do meaningful things? What brought me to this point? A morning when pain prevents clear thinking, that’s what. Getting old in itself is not a problem, after all, we all get old. It’s the pain that spoils everything.