Still chugging along. Currently critiquing stories for Inspirations Writers Group third publication, YELLOW, due out this year, maybe in time for Christmas like mine.
Publication is now dependant on the illustrators and their timescales. The formatter is primed and ready. The printers can turn around the print run in 2 weeks, but I've also got my hands full organising the massively important event that is Thanet Soroptimists Chartering Ceremony. This will be held in The Barn at Quex on 1st September and see the fruition of three years hard work of getting a Soroptimist Club off the ground and with enough members to be recognised by our parent organisation Soroptimist International.
It's difficult keeping my fingers away from my other novels, I'm attempted to start dabbling, but I'm trying to resist as I know I'll get submerged in the story. I guess that must be a writer's thing being swallowed alive by a story until you don't know reality from fiction. That's my life. I'm sure it drives my husband to despair as every conversation moves naturally to my current novel and where I am in its storyline and completion. I try not to bore him with the repetitive narrative of this, or that point, but.... That's how Inspirations came about, I was sure that I wasn't the only person who did that, drove their relatives, however well intentioned, away. I watch the switching off, the glazing over of eyes much like when someone has a hobby, or should that be an obsession?
Maybe writing is an obsession. I have to do it. If I'm sitting too long in one place my hand migrates to my bag and my faithful notebook. I am never without pen and paper. On the odd occasion I've written on paper hand towels & serviettes. Sometimes, something catches my eye, or should that be my mind. A bird bouncing back and forth on a telephone cable overhead suddenly takes off terrified... a police helicopter hoves into view flying low over the streets . A car deliberately screeching its tyres... an escape convict's car from a prison maybe? Even an empty tin rolling down the street pushed along by a high wind... thrown away by a husband upset at finding his wife in bed with another man?
I can imagine anything from anything and I'm sure everyone can. Why do some of us write and some of us, with the same imagination, not?