I’m a writer. I write. Isn’t that enough about me?
I was very young at the time and it’s all a bit vague. Ice cream figured quite heavily. Playing outside – we had a quarry nearby. What? We all survived. As soon as I learnt to read that’s what I did. A lot. Oh, and talking. I’m really good at that.
Early Middle Years
Puberty. Dancing. Boys. First job. Went bonkers. Nervous breakdown at 18. That’s a whole book waiting to be written. Spoiler alert – I survived. Ha! didn’t go to college, went slightly off the rails. Read a hundred, million books. Wrote some poems. They were really bad.
Left home. Left planet normal. Party. Oh yes, did quite a lot of that. Moved around the country quite a lot. Irresponsible was my middle name. So was alcohol, dancing, weirdness and having a good time. A good time was had.
Later Middle Years
Underlying it all I had not a clue what I was doing. The accelerator was stuck to the floor but it wasn’t me driving! Met my rock’n’roll bass playing husband. Partied hard. Serious fun was had. Serious stress was had. He was diagnosed with death. Pah. He survived. I realised one day I didn’t know who I was. That was a fun time.
Started getting my shit together when I couldn’t stand listening to myself speak or think anymore. Write, write, cry, write. Learn, practice, write. Because that’s what I do.
The sun has come out, I still haven’t a plan, but I l’m at peace with who I am. Love, live, listen. Back with the blog because the words have got to have somewhere to live.