Life has trucked on in a jolly, Smithy, summery way. Climate change is certainly working for us on the island, I can't remember such a long summer.
Today I started a writing a course. Its a scary step. From spending the money, to committing the time and doing the work just scares the shit out of me and it is the sort of thing I have previously found very easy to duck out of. I want it bad, but there are so, so many other things to do, priorities, etcetera, etcetera. This time the luthier looked at me and said quietly and firmly, as only the luthier can, "You should do this." So even though my knees do knock and my collies wobble, I am supported and not ducking out.
Do you find that? That its far easier to do jobs and commit to everyone else, than it is to commit to yourself? Doing things for the kids, or the luthier, or school, or whatever, certainly sits more easily in my chest than time and effort that is 'just for me'. Madness. I know that is madness, but it is true. And in an effort to break the habit and move forward a little, I have started a writing course.
"If you love it, do it", thats the sage advice I freely hand out, often unsolicited, to my kids and my friends. The time has come to take my own advice.
Writing for me is vulnerability, an exposure. While the act is always preceded by excitement, high expectations and lusty anticipation, often the reality, in my eyes, has a rather disappointing, withered result - much like a flasher in a raincoat under a lamppost in the park.
My first post to the course forum just went up for feedback. Let's hope they are gentle with me.