Well, that’s another Easter over with. Elder son now back at Uni and I’m another year older, a few pounds heavier (thanks to birthday choccies) and £1.08 poorer thanks to my brother putting the wrong postage on my birthday card (8p short to be exact, but Royal Mail add another £1 “handling charge” Godbless’em).
The trouble with birthdays at my age is all they do is help sound the death knell for your hopes and aspirations. For years I believed I was too young to make a career as a writer – everyone says you have to live a little (or preferably a lot) before you start putting pen to paper. Whether one believes that or not, I don’t think I’d have had the patience or staying power for it in my youth. And you need a lot of those, I’m coming to learn.
But now I have another worry. In the intervening years attitudes have somehow changed – now it’s hip to be young and successful. Being middle aged and having experience doesn’t seem to count for much. I’ve even heard whispers that some agents are less interested in an older writer because they haven’t much mileage left in them.
So I was seriously chuffed to see this on Janet Reid’s blog yesterday. Not to mention moved to tears. There is something about the individual spirit confounding expectations that uplifts us all. And if one dumpy Scottish housewife can knock their socks off, there’s maybe hope for me too!
2 comments:
Wow, I'm still crying. That was like a scene out of a movie, not real life. Can real life be as good as that? Beautiful.
Hi Lori, I've watched it about twenty times now and it still makes me weep. Wow, indeed!
Post a Comment