Yesterday I did a guest post over at Liz Fenwick’s blog. I was talking about tea; actually I was talking about life in a foreign country but channelling the tea theme. (And do go and look at my sister’s beautiful teapot, which has a starring role in the post.)
Liz and I met online as early Novel Racers. I think I’m going to make her blush but have a huge admiration crush on Liz. She was already taking her writing seriously when she joined the novel race but she has shown such tenacity through those years of learning the craft, that… well, I just really admire her. I know a teensy tiny bit how difficult writing a novel is and I hadn’t even got to the rejection stage!
So this month, Orion is publishing Liz’s first novel, The Cornish House. I cannot wait to read it.
Liz was always a great support to me when I was writing and I am enormously grateful for that. It leads me to thinking about my own experience and of my recent giving up status. Have I given up? Have I stopped just for a bit? My good friend, P – of the ‘total strangers for Christmas’ episode…. (Gasp! I don’t think I’ve ever recounted that story on this blog. There’s a post for this week, then.) Anyway, P asked me yesterday on skype about my writing and how I feel about not doing it. I’m still very happy with the decision. I often have ‘mmm, that would make a good story’ thoughts and I think regularly about the non-fiction book, which I think has real potential
if someone else hasn’t
already written it by the time I get my act together. In fact, I’m pretty sure
I will write fiction again but right now I’m happy because I'm still creating: I've returned to my art roots
for the time being. More on that another time.