If lockdown continues much longer, I’ll need a hobby. Writing only counted as one when I had very small children. Anything’s relaxing in comparison to wrangling toddlers.
Somebody said, “Becoming a writer is like setting homework for yourself for the rest of your life.” I enjoy that homework and think about it far more than is probably healthy, but you can only do so much of it before you fry your brain.
Out of lockdown, this isn’t an issue. It’s squeezed between school runs, laundry and dog walks.
I still do plenty of the last two. Am I missing the school run?
If so, one of my teenagers is going back to physical school on Monday. Whether or not he likes it, he will be picked up and dropped off. And my existential crisis will be solved. Thank you for being here while I work that out.
In other news, having released my short story, I returned to the novel. Yesterday, I realised my hero has a cat. I have a particular animal in mind. I’m careful to avoid putting real people in my fiction, but cats don’t have lawyers. And anyway, this is a tribute. He belonged to my flat mate and looked something like this. If you were upset about something, he’d plonk himself on your lap and kneed you with his paws until he decided you’d got over whatever it was.