I handed in the draft of the book and all of the accompanying academic essays this week and now I am bereft. I have stopped writing as I hear that I should give it space, let it breath. This action I file under the heading: 'things that real writers should do.' I think about my book and wonder if it is plausible, whether I wrote it well, whether it will make sense to anyone who ever reads it. I fantasise that it's simply awesome and that I will make my debut as a fledgling 42 year old writer and everyone will say; wow, yes, and she only started writing seriously so recently. Hah.
It's exam season so there's much revision going on in our house. It's tedious now and I know they feel it too. I've taken the decision not to push, not to pressure; if they don't want to do it, fine. I guess the premise is that they learn what it feels like to be underprepared if they didn't do enough work. It's a gamble! Before I know it my children will have broken up for summer and we will have nine whole weeks to fill. Academic terms have come to define us.
I spend - predictably, as relief - a disproportionate amount of time thinking about clothes. This being an facet of my personality that I think got established at a very young age. I just like clothes. Always have. But I wonder at my ability to spend hours scanning the internet for the perfect item at the perfect price. I find real, live shops intimidating and get uppity if a sales person tries to accost me. My shopping habits have changed beyond recognition from ten years ago, when I used to take a shopping trip for a day. Now my shopping is almost solely done with the cooperation of the postman. I don't think he is a willing collaborator.
I think a lot about the past, about how keenly I recall things that have happened and how the passage of time seems to happen to me without my knowledge. I do the same stuff each day and then seem surprised that another month has passed! Another spring, another summer...happy days.