Yes, I know. I've been neglectful.
I could promise to be a better blogger from this day forward but frankly I'm not sure whether I can live up to any New Year's resolutions of any kind.
I simply must write another book or two this year. That's the main goal. I have a couple on the way and I've barely glanced at them for months. So I won't make any grand pronouncements today, as I have in the past, about turning over new leaves or sharpening pencils.
After all there a million things I need to do at the same time as writing books. Or, conversely, there are a million things that suck out my brains and leave me no time or headspace for writing books. These range from having a day job which was supposed to be stress-free but isn't, to doing the washing.
Somewhere in amongst it all are a couple of stories trying pathetically to come out of the darkness and onto the weird backlit stage of the laptop. Via my mind.
A rocky road at the best of times.
At any rate lately I've been doing a raft of things rather than write books, such as building a garden (well, at present it's more about tearing apart an old one - I keep hoping to come across Mary Lennox and Dickon behind a wall of ivy), and staring absently-mindedly into the air.
I suppose something will come of that one day.
Right now there's a sulphur-crested cockatoo on the window sill, so I might watch him eat cherry plums. Instead of writing a book. Or blogging.