I am slowly letting 2025 in. I found it hard to let go of 2024. It was a year of so much.
On a writing note, it was the year my first play went into full production. I finally wrote "The
End" on a new manuscript – something that had taken a few years.
But on a personal note, and the most important, it was the year my mother finally had to
leave. She held on for as long as she could. She left in April – the month of cuckoos,
daffodils, and spring lambs in the fields. Things she loved and had to leave behind.
I like January. I like the light. That midwinter silver light when the sun seems to hang so low
you can almost touch it. The fields hold a constant shimmer of fog and dew. As I write this,
some parts of the country are under snow, and the roads are treacherous with ice. I feel
guilty, somehow, wrapped up warm beside the fire. I know not everyone is safe and warm in
the world.
A New Year I think is a time for new hope and fresh perspectives. I gave up making
resolutions years ago. They remind me of Lent. But I do have a check in with myself.
Especially about my writing and where I am with it.
When I was first published, the importance of being a bestseller in every sense seemed like
the ultimate achievement. Now, I am not so sure. Perhaps the only real worth of writing is
that it must matter.
The truth lies there. The worth is in the words.
So that is my rethink. Whatever I write must always matter. That is the most important thing.
Wherever you are in life I wish you well and hope that the year ahead will be good to you.
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