Today is my birthday, and tomorrow is the book-signing of my third novel. Fifteen years ago the thought of becoming a fully-fledged author was an impossible dream, which I was encouraged to commit to paper. I was over sixty, for heaven’s sake.
We had recently emigrated from Kenya, my husband and I, mainly due to his failing health. Although the doctors and nurses in Africa were first class, the infrastructure left lots to be desired. So – yes – we became medical immigrants, coming to cause more burden on the NHS. Australia, our first choice, because the bulk of our family had settled there, had refused us on the grounds of medical health.
But I digress…
With barely the wherewithal to pay for a tiny flat at the foot of the South Downs, and a husband who was medically retired – how was I going to find a way of earning a living?
I tried several options. While training for one of them, the concept of dreaming and setting goals caught my fancy.
It was no problem thinking up ten impossible dreamlike objectives, writing them down, and putting the list at the bottom of my empty in-tray. Writing a book and having it published was about fourth on the list. But I hasten to add that, although I am immensely proud of myself, my books did not lift our financial burden.
These past months Roy’s health has dwindled rapidly, and our lives have entered new territory. My admiration for the NHS has increased manifold, but the burden is different.
I have neglected my writing.
Today seems an appropriate time to re-start my Friday blog. I feel rather rusty, so please forgive me.