I've been doing an awful lot of moaning of late. I spent most of the latter half of my holiday whingeing and sighing about how hard it is being the 41-yr-old mother of a 2-yr-old and how impossible it makes it to relax or have any fun or enjoy one's holidays... but then I gave myself a metaphorical slap and reminded myself of how adorable he is, how short-lived this phase of his life is, and how motherhood is hard for everyone.
My life does swing at the moment between moments of wonder (his skin as he wraps himself around me, his smile, his squidginess, the speed with which he learns) and of hell (tying to cook or pack or clean or shop while he trails after me, grizzling and wailing "Mummeeee"), but I try too hard to fight what has to be. It is the way it is, and this too shall pass.
Likewise with the book. There are tons of positive things about this book, not least all the lovely things peple have done and said and the gorgeousness of the cover, and the fact that I am in control. It's also done what I wanted it to do, which is revive my faith in myself as a writer, stop me from defining myself as "Failed Writer", and give me a little creative boost before the mayhem and potential drudge of the new job.
Publicity is a pain. Trying to sell oneself and one's work is a pain. But it doesn't have to be. All I have to do is stop whingeing, decide what I'm happy and comfortable doing, and sod the rest. I am answerable to nobody but myself.
Maybe Because I’m a Londoner
19 hours ago