Time

I know, I know. I'm late again, aren't I? You came here expecting to hear all about my new course, and how it's changed my writing and transformed me into a god astride the your puny world, right?

Wrong? Probably just as well, because instead you're getting this: a blog about time.

Now, for the word 'blog', you can substitute any of the following: whinge, rant, diatribe, moan, beef, lament, grumble and all the other words my handy Thesaurus can recommend. Because that's essentially what I'm going to do today: complain.

Recently I've stumbled upon a happy place in my work. I'm getting bits and pieces in print (with more on the way!), the Valentine Chronicles continues to gain more and more hits per month, and I'm happy with the way my writing's developing. I've noticed a hardening in that little kernel all writers must nurture; that belief that maybe--after all the rejections and hard work and self-doubt--just maybe, I can make it. It's a belief I hope other writers I admire like Lee Moan and Allyson Bird have discovered: the belief that they can take the next step and make this writing lark a career. Because that's what I'm starting to believe. I could do it, I really could. If only I had the time...

And that's the thing, isn't it? If I didn't have to work do a Normal Job to pay all the bills and loans and mortgages that make a Normal Life, I could just and concentrate on my work. I could produce tale after glittering tale of wonder and daring do. I could write that "third time lucky" novel, or that comic series, or finish the Valentine Chronicles etc. But, dammit, Real Life just keeps getting in the way, doesn't it?

I'm sure this is a barrier all successful writers must overcome... have overcome... and I'm sure that, if I am to succeed, I have to as well. Maybe this is the biggest test? Maybe the next barrier isn't the material I'm producing, but finding the time to produce it?

Only time will tell.