I’ve been wondering for a while, whether I’m actually pushing myself that wee bit too hard. Expecting too much of myself and my elderly-gentleman stamina levels.
I’m writing pretty much every day, editing/revising when I can and trying to keep two blogs up-to-date, while fighting with artists, gig promoters and (this week) fundamentalist religious bigots.
Something has to give and I’d prefer it wasn’t me.
So I’m going to rein it all back in. Get ‘back to basics’, as that nice Mr Major used to say.
I write. That’s what’s important. Not all the bullshit-and-frou-frou that surrounds it. Maybe that’s what I lost sight of, stuck on the endless treadmill of trying to cram a week into every single day.
I’m fifty-one years old. People my age are cutting back on the hours they spend working, only too aware that time is running out and energy levels aren’t what they once were.
Finishing that Philip Kerr novel the other night and starting on another China Mieville has reminded me of something else: I fucking love reading and that was why I got into words originally.