. . . I want to be a writer.
This childhood dream has just popped back into my head, after being buried for some 55 years. In those days I was horse mad, and all the stories I wrote involved me owning and riding ponies.
Now I have decided once again to be a writer, and I read somewhere that the best way to become something is to pretend you already are. So - I am a (pretend) writer.
The next step is to decide what to write about, and again I read (you'll be surprised to learn I read a lot) that you should write about what you know. Well, so there the problems start, because I'm a bit of a Jill of all trades, I know a little bit about lots of things but I dont know a lot about anything much.
Maybe I should write about my day so far, but who is really interested in reading that I got up at 4 am to let the cat out, only to find she didn't want to go out, just wanted to be stroked and made a fuss off . . . at 4 am! Get a life, cat. And I dont suppose that my two cups of tea in bed, made for me by the lovely Rog, while I sat propped up on my pillows doing some crocheting, will be very exciting to many folks. My bowl of cereal for breakfast, which, although being wholesome and fulfilling, is unlikely to inspire anyone to great things. And I really cant even think of anything I did during the course of the morning, apart from washing dishes, loading the washing machine, making beds and sending a couple of emails. Late morning, and is anyone in their right mind going to show the remotest flicker of interest at Rog's and my sodden walk to town, we ourselves stayed dry under the brolly, but our shoes and feet got soaked! Buying carrots and onions in Sainsbury's was about as exciting as watching paint dry, and my 36p fine on my late returned library book is doubtless unlikely to make any difference to the world economic situation. A quick pint of lager for him and a half of Guinness for me in Wetherspoons helped to bide some time while the weather decided to change its course, so that when we emerged it was into sunshine, but is that really of earth-shattering importance to anyone? Our bus ride home (free, courtesy of over-sixties bus passes) passed entirely without incident, and our salmon salad lunch, although tasty and full of nutrients, would hardly feature as a newsworthy item.
So now as I sit digesting, I'm wondering what on earth I should write about. Maybe I should renew my passion for ponies again and take up horse riding and writing about it, or maybe I should just pop the dream back where it came from, buried deep down at the bottom of the filing cabinet in my memory (answers on a postcard please).