The truth is

I haven't been abducted by aliens, nor have I been recruited by the Irish Secret Service for some glamorous and fantastic mission involving using my jacket as a parachute while escaping from a helicopter, I didn't get so confused by the new look of blogger behind the scenes that I fell down a well, nor have I had more children or dogs, I haven't failed to notice all the brilliant exciting achievements of people I know from blogland (are you listening Niamh Boyce, Peadar O BusaJewel?!), nor have I won the lotto and spent the last month recruiting a new blog team from all corners of the earth to bring you the BEST blog ever known to anyone, and I certainly haven't had a surreal wardrobe exploration which resulted in me being missing for almost a century in wardrobe time but only a few weeks in time here on this place.... I am coming up on almost the 3rd anniversary of me finishing writing my difficult 2nd novel. I've never reread it, not more than a page or two anyway, I haven't edited it, I haven't sent it anywhere. The sad truth right now is that I wouldn't even have time to read it. I'm in a book club nowadays and I'm still half way through February's book - I get a half page of it read every so often. Where else is my time going? Not into writing. And I think this needs a bit of correction. I spent half an hour writing last night, what I wrote wouldn't be worth telling you about, but I actually felt better for it today, like - slightly less stressed, more creatively brained, more like myself... I think It could possibly be something I need to do - even if what I write never sees the light of day...