stray thoughts, writing
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cyclamen on the windowsill

It’s been sparkly and bright. Full of family, food, togetherness & love, and crammed with nearly all of the Christmassy delights we could have wished for. We’ve had a fortnight of near-total bliss and I feel so very lucky.

Today the older two little ones are back at school & nursery, B is back at work, and it feels a little like the real first day of the new year. It’s bittersweet: the sadness that we’re not all hanging out together anymore, but the excitement of new projects & plans. The whole year ahead, it’s shape yet to unfold. And all that I wish for, really, is that we’re all healthy, all happy (on balance), all still here next year. Which is, perhaps, a lot.

I haven’t made resolutions or chosen a word for the year. Instead I’m following Austin Kleon’s wise advice: something small, every day. Which in this case is fifteen minutes of writing (truly small), every day (truly terrifying). Somewhere, somehow, the commitment to just fifteen minutes. It’s a test of my resolve, a test of just how serious I am.

I think that I’ve written this out in my notebook at least four time in the last two years:

“Writing every day is the key to becoming a writer. Writing every day is the key to remaining a writer. It is the only secret, the only trick.

The Writer’s Portable Mentor, Priscilla Long [underlining mine]

Something small, every day. I’ll let you know how I get on.


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