I’m so busy.
I hate complaining that I’m busy, because being busy is a privilege. Being busy means there’s something to live for, something to be done, progress to be made. There’s so much to do! There’s the day job, dinners out, bands to watch, drinks to be had, writing contracts to be signed, book proposals to be written, hands to hold.
My calendar’s full, my tummy is full, my heart is full. God it’s nice to love someone. And to be loved, too. Every minute spent with him is a joy – and makes me want more minutes with him. The minutes turn into hours and I neglect what I should be doing – writing. Sorry. It’s not that my passion’s been replaced by another, honestly. I want to write.
I feel guilty for not writing here. I don’t want to publish a half-arsed attempt. But when I’m not writing, I’m out living life. Sometimes I just want to be writing, but sleep comes before writing most nights. I’m tired. Is everyone tired at the end of the year? There’s four more working days til the holidays – that’s 10 days rest! I’m hanging out.
Yesterday this blog turned four years old. It’s been four years since I wrote this dodgy post, and look how far I’ve come. Hello world indeed. Thank you to everyone who has read, commented on or shared my blog, and especially to those of you who have stopped me in the street to say you’re a reader!
Here’s to more blogging – when I’m not so busy.