Life gets in the way.
It should be written on my gravestone. I’ve got too much on, and not enough time, which means that at the moment I can only write on a Satruday night.
Now, in fact.
Virginia said that all you need to be a writer is a private income and a room of your own. Well, I’ve got a room, but I have to earn the money to pay for it, and that eats into my writing time somewhat.
And I have a life too, and friends, which soaks up a lot of what’s left.
Then again, Virginia owned a publishing company, while I only aspire to a new Macbook, and I’m tempted to suggest that I’ve got more readers than her right now, and while that thought makes me smile, it’s probably not true. It’s a moot point: there are only 168 hours in a week, and as much as I adore her, and as much as she annoys me, she can’t change that.
So I’m going to get on with Grendel, which has been bubbling away at the back of my mind for a few weeks. There are questions I need to answer.
But right now, I don’t know what they are.