Stop

Yesterday I did no writing. I didn't even think about my writing. I got up at 4.30 am, got my family ready and together we drove to a local hospital. We spent the morning talking to nurses and each other. In the early afternoon, I accompanied my son to a separate room and watched him fall asleep in readiness for his operation.

I'm not asking for sympathy here. I'm not telling a sad tale. The operation appears to have been a success. My son is home and recovering. My family is complete once more.

As writers, our lives can centre around our literary darlings, our plots, our publishing plans and every other factor of our trade. I applaud all of that enthusiasm and commitment but on occasion, life will stop us. It will say 'hush your imaginings' and require something else of us.

Never feel guilty about those times. They deserve as much commitment from us as the hours we spend weaving our imagined worlds. Books tells tales of life, which is why we read them. Writers must therefore live to have the material to write about. Living is good. It is the ultimate 'show' because living a life does not 'tell' us how it should be experienced, it shoves us in there for good or bad.

My son is fine. I'm writing again. Life is good.