The last months have had some difficulty for me. Actually, I don't think that this has been my century.
Shame: I reproach myself. My life is far better than most peoples of the world. My problems less. But, that's the way we are, aren't we? Or some of us, anyway?
I have been rereading "Slipstream" by E. J. Howard, and noting how, although her life, her attitudes, her status, .her outlook are so different from mine, so much self reproach, regret and beating herself up for youthful ignorance is similar.
Once I wrote a book. I did that because, after my husband died I wanted to read an epic story. Only familiar with "literature", I couldn't find what I wanted, so wrote it. It sank without a trace and because the whole circus around such embarrassed me, that suited me quite well. "Now write another," they said. How could I do that? I didnt know how to write a book. That they classified it as a "romance" only put me off further. I had no time for "romance", and if E J Howard did, I think it was only a negative in her life.
Now I understand more about writng a book and have been writing another. It is hard work in that one cannot judge the merit of one's words, so it can easily be futile and self indulgent rubbish. My chances of geting published are quite remote, which is not a concern. Writing a "good yarn", is.
My sweet daughter has read ooos, and of course she likes it, That doesn't count. Feedback. Feedback, so nourishing, so vital, so elusive.