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.
