I don’t know how to begin this. I’m so rusty. It’s been three years.

Time has… I don’t know where time has gone. I keep seeing superman flying around and around the planet turning the hours and years back.

I wish.

But onwards we must go!

When I was nine I had a crush on Christopher Reeve. I kept a picture of him under my pillow in his superhero clothes, looking at it every night before I closed my eyes. He was going to fly with me. Not Lois bloody Lane…

Needless to say, I don’t have that crush anymore. Funny the things we remember, eh?

I’m trying so hard to remember everything that’s happened since my last post. It really is a blur.

Rain. Rain. Words. An incredibly hot summer this year. My lawn smells of straw.

But she, my darling, dearest daughter has grown. A child no more. We’ve just done GCSEs and now onto sixth form, a different school. It’s maths, further maths, physics and chemistry. She sure as hell didn’t get those genes from me.

And finally I finished the novel this week. April, May, June… One last push. Carrying heavy stones up a hill. But I got there in the end. I’ve been writing this damn thing forever. Is it any good? I don’t know. That’s for you to decide. I’ve queried a few agents, but honestly, what was the point? My chances pathetically slim. And typically as soon as I pressed send, I began to see new typos, EVERYWHERE, like spotting stars in the sky. There’s one. Oh look, there’s another…

I’m already gearing up for self-publication. I still think its worth putting it out there after all this time. It isn’t literary, or necessarily saying anything clever, but I’m hoping someone will be entertained. I’ve grown to love my characters, and its hard to let them go. Maybe that’s why I’ve taken so long.

Writing a novel is a funny thing. Part projection. Some vanity. But also getting lost in another world. Redeeming myself. My characters finding closure in dreams I never fulfilled. Vicarious and quite lovely at times. Escape. Listening to music as I type the words. Fuelled by ceremonial cacao—open, warm, flowing. That was quite the discovery, refocusing my menopausal mind.

And what will I do with my weekends now its done? Blog. Oh, and think about ideas for a new story, one already seeding itself. A sort of follow-on. Connected to my current tome, but a stand alone too. I can feel excitement again. Keep your feet on the ground I remind myself. It’s only a hobby. But still, a good one.

An agent once asked me who I am as a writer—my brand. I have grappled with this for so long. But finally I think I have found it, though it feels so obvious really: “I write stories about quirky, complicated characters navigating life’s darker episodes in colourful, unconventional and sometimes questionable ways.” I like how this cuts through genre too.

I didn’t know where I was going with this post, and I’m not quite sure where to end it either. It’s been over here and over there.

Though weirdly it has left me a little clearer.

Until the next time. The end.