Last time you will remember I told you of my intention to take the plunge and become a full-time writer. I read somewhere quite recently that books apparently don’t write themselves. Well that little revelation hit me like a bloody express train I can tell you.
So, apart from the aforementioned pencil sharpener, I will definitely need some form of writing routine. When it comes to achieving my goal it is comforting to know that I have the accumulated wisdom and experience of countless successful writers, both past and present, at my disposal – a dash of Dahl and a touch of Tolstoy, a generous helping of Hemingway and a pinch of Potter. I will be in such grand company.
Note to self – read up about Dalton Trumbo
A couple of folk have already very kindly suggested that I merely pull my proverbial finger out and just get on with it. I suppose I could. But where’s the fun in that. I’ve waited this long. A while longer won’t hurt. This evening I stood on the balcony and watched the fireflies in the grass below. They are such a wonder and a great source of delight, made perfect with a cup of hot chocolate sprinkled with coconut in my hand.
Tomorrow, I am setting out on the little winding path that leads gently down through the woods to the road of full-timeness. Hey, I don’t expect you to hold my hand. If you must follow me then please do so discreetly at a respectful fifteen paces so you don’t freak me out.