The Wrong Timing

Sometimes I think that I am writing my novels decades too late. When I was young, and first writing, there were opportunities but I turned them down in favour of a career in healthcare, and so, my pen became my hobby. A few years and several house moves later, during which my stored work was culled to make space for other household items, and I realise that amongst those discarded pages were probably some of my finest writing. The newness of each life experience was captured in the words of that era; a time before we spoke openly and freely about sex, drugs and emotions with our parents. How I wish that I had saved those scribblings so that I could now savour those moments in time. Now I suspect that my mind is too full of experience to write with the naive power of that young girl.


Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s