Every year at about this time (and like a lot of other people) I seem to go into a state of crazed busyness combined with a desperate self-review.
Makes for a fun time… not.
I don’t know exactly what it is that brings it about – is it the continual overwork? The lack of time off? The additional socialising and other stresses? A new year looming? Why must I suddenly want to correct everything that’s not perfect in my life – and there’s a lot of that – all at once!?
So, yeah, one of the things is my lack of writing, lack of time for writing, that I only feel inspired to complain when I write… ho hum.
And here I am. Writing. Complaining.
But at least I’m here.
In the library, in fact.
A friend who I’ve never seen in the library before – and I’m not here often either – just walked past and sat down to read a book. They close shortly, hoping I can nab her for a chat and a tea.
That’s what I do these days – chat to a friend or family – when I can. Writing seems like an ancient friend that I’ve lost touch with. But I do think about her often, wishing to reconnect…