Not long to go and I am in agony and completely exhausted. My characters are not willing to play ball and my mind is so full of the business side of writing that my creative self is struggling for breath.
At least I'm not 27. Nearly a decade has passed by since then. Today, I looked at a piece of writing recovered from the vaults of the internet that I wrote in that year. By coincidence, I also stumbled onto the blog of another 27 year old. I revisited that time: too old to be young and not old enough to be deemed wise with any sense of conviction, regardless of evidence to the contrary. In many ways, I feel less old approaching my 37th birthday than I did approaching my 27th. Many of the dreams I had a decade ago have been accomplished. 27 felt like running in traffic that someone else was controlling. Now, I feel I am at the wheel of my own vehicle. I know what it looks like and all the little idiosyncrasies with its controls and I'm happy to drive it. I threw out the sat nav a long time back. I prefer not to have my course dictated to me any more. Wherever I end up, is down to me. I'm enjoying the journey, and if my characters don't want to play ball? Tough. I have a novel to finish.