Writing is lonely, exciting, frustrating, interesting, exhausting and soul destroying. It is neither a job nor a pleasure, but a necessity. If is a writer, then one has to write: anything else in completely unthinkable; any other occupation is a waste of time.
Am I a writer? I am beginning to think so. I have twenty seven hard-copy books published over the past twenty four years, plus some e-books and I don’t-know-how-many articles, chapters, bits and pieces and other things. Yet until a few weeks ago I did not think of myself as a writer. I was a postman who wrote, a lecturer who wrote, a researcher who wrote, a husband who wrote, a Dad who wrote, but never a writer.
Why the difference in attitude? I do not know. It just is, and that is all there is to it.
At the beginning of this week I finished a First World War novel I have entitled Our Land of Palestine. It may be successful or it may not. I do not know. My last First World War book, Last Train to Waverley, published in September was fairly well received so I can only hope for the same. I am very fortunate that my publisher for Waverley was Fledgling Press, a tolerant, dynamic and friendly bunch of people in Edinburg with whom I have been working for some years. All the same, now I have submitted the manuscript, the waiting period will be as nerve wracking as ever.
Will they like it? Will they accept it? Is the standard high enough? Have I taken too many liberties with history? Are the characters well drawn? I do not know. I know what I wanted to say, what points I hoped to make and what impact I tried to have, but will Fledgling agree?
I do not know.
The waiting comes now.
But while I wait, the New Year will start and will roll on. Happy New Year everybody. I hope that whatever you wait for comes to pass in the best possible way and that 2015 is the year for which you have waited all your life.
Good health, peace and happiness to you all.