I am writing my first draft of my very first novel. It is glorious, hideous, joyous and grievous.
Sometimes I feel confident that Salman Rushdie had better watch his back and his Bookers. Other times I have this debilitating fear that I peaked around '92', when all I knew was primary school and navy leggings - and poetry was all about witty assonance; like pairing "heart" with "fart". It's true, my best years may be behind me, but I can't go back there. Worst of all, I can't stay here either.
I hope this becomes my place to move forward, learn, share and, of course, whine and rant when I've exhausted my resources of gracious, patient friends.