I resolved to start writing. Again.
Let me explain. I’ve always written. I won’t tell you how long ‘always’ is, but suffice to say that several birthdays worthy of their own granite waymarkers have been and gone, most the mere echo of a celebration in the rear view mirror. I’ve toyed with giving up the job – I’m loathe to call it a career, that sounds planned – and going freelance. I skirted the perimeter of semi-professional music journalism for two or three years, dipped my toe into the murky waters of social media, wrote a couple of blogs, but it doesn’t pay and the bills keep coming.
Tankers take ages to turn around. My anchor was freed at a literary festival in the Summer of 2017, and I haven’t stopped writing since. I have made it a routine. I may eventually finish something. The iceberg is receding. The band plays on.
As creative outlets go, a future novel is a long-term thing. In the meantime, The Beveled Edge, my own little patched up raft on the online storm, riding the surf, allowing the tide to take it where it will. Books, writing, music; the stuff that fills the gaps, all the time telling the truths as I see them, holding fast to my own skewed interpretation of Emily’s dictum.