I’m not sure if I’ve already told you this, although I probably have.
(The older I get, the more I repeat myself. Sorry. It’s a habit of mine, not just these days but because I often used to speak so quietly no-one ever heard me the first time.)
Anyway, as I’ve no doubt told you a thousand times (for the millionth time, stop exaggerating) I’m in my second year of studying for an MA in creative writing with The Open University.
The idea was for me to improve my writing while, at the same time, start and finish a novel which has been in my head for some time.
However, it’s not going so well. I’m not really cut out to be a writer of historical fiction. I skimp too much on detail and my voice is too irreverent and modern. Although saying that, I’m still planning to one day revisit my draft novel about a time travelling Stuart.
Just not on this day.
I’ve regrouped and decided to focus on a collection of short stories. I have to produce 15,000 words of fiction for my final assignment in the autumn, so I’m trying to bash out a short story a week. It’s times like these when I realise the writing gene went down the Hancock-Hall-Hemingway side in full regalia, while cocking a snook at my branch of the family tree.
Keep safe out there.
That’s about it.