Maybe it’s morbid to talk about your inevitable death on your birthday.
Or maybe one’s birthday is an ideal time to reflect upon the natural ending of things, as well as the things you want to accomplish before your own end time, and more importantly, the barriers, both real and imaginary, that stand in your way.
I’ve got one more kick at the can.
I’m a long-standing lover of New Year’s resolutions, and this year, aside from just setting some—which is the easy part—I decided to perform regular progress assessments in order to course correct as needed to help boost my likelihood of achieving success.
I’m always taken aback when a non-writer is impressed by the act of writing a novel.
In last week’s post, I wrote about my passion for writing and how, in reality, my devotion to it presents as rather obsessive and possibly a little pathetic.
This past August, my family sold the house that I grew up in.
My dad had been living there, but passed away almost two years ago (it will be exactly two years at the start of December).
The Soweto Gospel Choir at Vancouver’s Orpheum Theatre
It’s been years since I’ve been to a concert.
I’m not really sure why this is the case. I have a close friend who is as much a music lover as I am, and we have a standing commitment to see at least one concert together a year.
I’ve written before on the topic of writers and validation.
That previous post was related to which form of publishing one might chose to pursue (self-publishing vs. traditional), and what that choice may or may not say about one’s need for acknowledgement by writing industry professionals, which in turn may or may not relate to the strength of one’s self esteem.
I haven’t done nearly enough reading this year.
I started 2018 off strong, with my previous Recent Reads post from January to March including four completed books.
(Well technically, three books and one novella, but one of those books was a reference for the next historical fiction novel I plan to write. Reading that required highlighting and note-taking that slowed me down considerably, and perhaps balances out the novella’s shorter length.)