I have a lot of cupboards in my kitchen. A lot. Plus a large cubbyhole which some might describe as a pantry. Not saying my kitchen is huge, more that it’s been well planned. (Not by me. Perhaps by a fellow hoarder in days gone by – thank you, my dear.)
But would you look at this mess. A few days after Christmas and I still can’t fit all the Christmas food into the cupboards. I’ve even got spare cake in our bedroom.
Cake. In our bedroom! What on Earth?
And also Toblerone and chocolate truffles so B-Daddy is now pointing out. Who rattled his cage? Urgh.
So I’m a closet writer. They say the first step is admitting it.
I’ve been thrashing away at my laptop over the past…ahem…few years, writing and rewriting (a million times) my first rom com novel. (My predictive text did not understand rom com. It offered me poo boo. Thanks.)
A few people know about this dratted book, but very few have seen proof of its existence. It has become like my secret shame. When people ask me how it’s coming along, I want to kill them. Extreme, I know. But when the truth is that you’ve got another long and arduous edit ahead and you’re losing the will to live, it’s them or you! The road to becoming a published writer is loooooooong.