There comes a point in your life, where you come to the realisation that maybe…just maybe, there is something more.
I couldn’t want for anything more; I consider myself blessed with family and friends. But maybe…just maybe there is something more.
Untapped talent…
Undiscovered genius…
Unheard of fortes…
Untouched ability…
Unbelievable modesty...
Or maybe…just maybe, I am having a lend of myself.
Understandably, with running a household, rearing a toddler, managing a husband, holding down a part time job (translates – full time job), writing part time and reviewing part time, I have ample time to take on more.
In a moment of crystallised idiocy, I actually considered that I could be a writer as well. Perhaps these musings may actually be of interest to someone else. Clearly that someone else would have little in the way of a life, but happy to afford a little time to these words.
I submitted my first article recently to a magazine for editorial consideration. I steeled myself for the inevitable writer’s rejection slip. I am not under any false pretence in this regard. I already have a plan. I am going to collect my rejection slips over time and wallpaper my library with them. A tapestry of knock backs. My ultimate goal – because as a writer I think it is important to have goals – is to get rejected from all of the major publishing houses. Unfortunately my well considered plan has already come undone. They loved my article and want to publish it.
