To be a writer you’re supposed to write every day. I try to adhere to this, although I don’t crucify myself over it. During the mayhem of Christmas and the New Year, I tend to put aside my ongoing projects and allow my writing to wander along different tracks. It’s a time for freewheeling. For writing anything. Stuff I wouldn’t normally ‘waste’ time on. A bit like the delight taken in frivolous presents. Just as I find myself playing silly games pulled from the bottom of a Christmas stocking, I also find myself writing odd paragraphs spilled from the bottom of a glass of port. Hey, it’s still writing.
I’m always hopeful I’ll get lots of reading done, but I rarely do. It’s not so easy when the giblets need boiling and The Snowman needs watching. But I can at least dip into the magazines piled in a corner, or read some short stories.
My year ended with a short story of mine being published in a small anthology. It’s nothing major, a mere stocking filler. Without wishing to sound greedy, I’m hoping the coming year will bring me bigger presents in the world of writing and publishing. But, remembering how my grandma was grateful as a child if she received an orange for Christmas and nothing else, I’ll settle for just being able to carry on writing.
Happy New Year.