And so, this time last week I was sitting in a very accessible coffee shop in Edinburgh with two former colleagues I hadn’t seen in a while.

We were catching up before I realised they hadn’t seen Isla in a REALLY long time.

‘But I feel like I’m in your house every day,’ said one.

‘I look forward to your Isla posts every morning,’  said the other.  It’s a good thing I’m cross-eyed too, because I was able to look at them both at the same time.  Hi.

See, my daughter is three going on 35.  She gets her sarcasm from me, and every time I find myself saying, ‘I can’t believe you just said that,’ I post our conversation on Facebook, because she did say it, and I can kinda believe it.

‘You should write a book.’

I then launched into how NaNo wasn’t happening, how I felt I’d let down my blogger friends, because I’m the one who made them sign up, how I’m happiest when I’m writing but there’s NO TIME.  Because.  But.  And.

‘Uh huh.  Shut up and finish something by February.’

So, there’s that.

I’ve not so secretly wanted to put a collection of essays together since forever.  And real talk, I’d always thought that by now I’d have written a few novels.  But that would require y’know, actually finishing a few novels.

My fiction brain has kinda fizzled out, for about three years and five months.  Funny, that.

But I’ve been thinking about those essays.

About a kid who grew up to be someone who doesn’t really know where home is, but who knows what it means.  About someone who fits in everywhere and nowhere and gets along with everyone.  Mostly.  Everyone except Neil Diamond.

Someone who hates triumphing over any sort of fucking adversity, but prefers to work with it.

A sarcastic bitch with a heart of platinum.  Because gold is boring.

Or something.

That I can do.

youshouldbewriting

 

 

 

 

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