It wasn't an especially rainy or frosty kind of morning - just a bit chilly and damp, but I really couldn't wait to get back indoors from the school run, sit down at my (makeshift) desk with a huge mug of coffee, and just - you know - make stuff up.
That's what I really love doing.
I don't want to talk about writing with other pseudo-writers...I don't want to sit in coffee shops pretending to be JK Rowling (or bars pretending to F Scott FitzGerald)...I don't want signings in bookshops or interviews in magazines or on TV.
I just like making stuff up.
And this morning I wanted to start doing it again. I've no idea whether I'll continue to feel like this - or if it'll help me to achieve a worthwhile amount of writing. I can't help thinking it's the hope of one day getting published and read by people (however small and remote that chance may be) that really gives me the necessary push to keep on going. And I don't have that belief any more. Or at least, not at the moment.The last lot of rejections drove it right out of me.
'What's the point?' I asked myself, promptly replacing the lost hope with feelings of foolishness and shame. 'There isn't any point - you're a fucking idiot!'
But this morning I felt like writing again.