I advertise myself as a writer. I write. I also work in Social Care.
I spend more time in Social Care than writing. So I feel like a fraud. Lie to myself, I say. Believe the lie, I say.
I have finished flash fiction. I have finished local mythology. I have finished shifts at a desk.
I have never finished a novel. I have started two. I have ideas for many more. I have never finished.
Tonight I see I am 23000 words into my current work. I am pleased. Pleased because I know where I am going.
Those 23000 words are a challenge. They urge me on. Write more, they whisper. Give me completion, they hiss.
So I write. Social Care is behind me. I finished a shift. I began another…