Always expect the
One of the best moves I made recently was to stop following a couple of American Facebook pages. It was a daily purge, following the shite that’s going on there all through lockdown, and now it’s just the occasional bit of click bait such as President Donald Trump Issues A Full Pardon t … and I can’t even be bothered to click and see who, what, where, when, whatever. Yawn. I know it matters to a lot of people. Someone I care for is American, but I’m fifty-six and a quarter way through my fifty-seventh year, already, and it’s getting to the point where I have to be selective about the matters that take up milliseconds of my time.
If you haven’t done things you wanted to do before you reach your fifties, well, it’s likely you are not going to get around to doing them. If you do try to do them – like I did when I moved to Spain hoping to find work at fifty-one – you will probably find that it’s too late. The best thing to do in your early/mid fifties is to accept this is your lot and embrace every day above ground as the blessing it is because pretty soon you are heading to a spot below where the sun ain’t gonna shine anymore. I know, I know, I’m in cheery mood this evening. I saw a cowboy film years ago where the main protagonist said, ‘Every day above ground is a good day.’ Wise words. They stuck with me. As did these words from Charlie the mechanic in Coronation Street, ‘Always expect the worst, then you’ll never be disappointed.’ I’m trying to work out when I heard that great quote first. It must be at least twenty-five years ago, and it could be a lot more. I am not going to google when Charlie appeared in Coronation Street. No fucking way.
I sent the first couple of pages of my next book to a friend of mine. One of the words she used to describe it was ‘amazing’ and she gave me a good tip, too. This friend loves my writing. I know what you’re thinking – why wouldn’t she?
Chop, chop, there’s work to be done.
P.S. A woman from NYC messaged me after reading Tapas, Tarts & Trannies saying it took her a long time to finish the book because she didn’t want it to end and would limit herself to two pages a day. She asked me if I could rewrite the ending or do a new book with a dream sequence introduction. I told her I couldn’t do that. When I wrote the ending, I wept. I didn’t sob, I wept.
No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.
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