I have two days during the week when Missy is at childcare. These two days are my weekends, and I cram as much into them as humanly possible. I make lists as long as my arm and end up doing a fingertip’s worth. I socialise, I do volunteer work, I take time for myself, I shop, I rest, I read. I always mean to catch up on housework, pay bills, work on household projects. And I almost always don’t.

This week was supposed to be different. Yesterday and today were meant to be serious writing days. Or at this stage, research. And a little writing. But I had to (‘had to’) settle other business, and had to have my weekly catch up with a dear friend, which is just about the highlight of my week. That was yesterday, and today I spent time reading Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, a fine book on writing. And researched publications to target.

In short, I haven’t written anything yet. But I’m telling myself to be patient, because it’s better to research and target publications properly. And besides, January is for research. But Anne Lamott is adamant that writers should write, and if they have nothing to write about, they should write about their childhoods.

And I will. Tomorrow. Because I am now typing with eyes half shut, in a darkened house where everyone else is fast asleep. Tomorrow I will tell you of my earliest memories. It will be about food and books, and family.

Until then, adieu.

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