“And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise.  The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt”  Sylvia Plath

They say the best way to become a writer is to write. I have spent a great many years being too scared to write anything in case it wasn’t good enough. Terrified to put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, in case the results proved to me that I wasn’t – as I hoped – the next Nin, Lawrence, Kafka… but, in fact, a writer not even worthy of those godawful chick lit books that seem to be everywhere these days.

And so, I intend to write. Here. Anything. Without editing, without obsessing, without deleting whole pages because it just doesn’t ‘feel right’. And if I am happy with it, I will smile. And if not, I’ll just move on, and write until I am happy. Because at least, that way, I will be writing.

M.

We’ve lived in this house for nearly two years. We’ve never painted it, so we struggle everyday with the awful cream (Magnolia? Really?) that the previous tenants loved so much they used it in every single room. Over the years, P and I have accumulated a number of pictures and frames, promising ourselves one day we’d have the perfect ones, and then we could put them up on the wall.
Today, we admitted the truth and just decided to put up the ones we had, and to hell with perfection! And, really, I think it turned out good.
We’ve got four others to come back from the framers next weekend, but for now, at least they detract from the awful walls…

Also, if you look carefully, while wandering down our corridor, you might spot our little pet, Neruda, who travelled back with us from Mexico, and can now be found lurking menacingly – ready to pounce on intruders!

M.