Time is relative

If you're looking for a coherent entry, just keep on walkin'.... *g*

A gentle nudge from Beth and Olga reminded me I've been invisible a *smidge* too long (although an editor once told me "very soon" when she meant "six months" so I think my own "soon" still retains some narrative truth).

I've been away for the weekend, meeting up with my very good friends Julie and Biddy in order to eat too much chinese food, drink too much wine, and drool too much over Keith Urban live in concert.

We had a wonderful time. Talking food, chocolate (yes, chocolate is a thing in itself, not just a food group), sex and writing. And for me, just being with my friends, and being in London, is a very renewing and empowering experience. Something about London frees me - I'm way more adventurous there than I am in real life. It should be the other way round, but it's not.

But when I'm really busy at work, and when I want to take Thursday afternoon and Friday off to Run Away To The Big City, it feels rather like running up a mountain in order to jump off the top. Lots of hours, lots of intense working, and rushing, rushing, rushing, to get to the stage where I can abandon work for a few days and not come back to find people sticking pins into little wax models of me.

This is, of course, an exageration. The people I work with are exceptionally able and lovely people. The people I work for are incredibly good humoured and forgiving. But shovelling work from my desk to someone else's just so I can go and kick up my heels in London is Just Not Done. I'd rather stick pins in me.

(If anyone comes across the original thread of this entry, do please let me know. I seem to have wandered off the point very slightly.)

Anyway. I have returned. I put in four hours at the office today and then ran round like a headless chicken grocery shopping, buying jeans (I now own a pair of jeans! I have been jeanless for about four years!!!), looking for cheap cars for Husband and buying presents. Left the house at 8.30, got back at 7.30, cooked dinner, watched The Professionals (Lewis Collins with his hand down Pamela Stephenson's bra. Excellent) and went upstairs to do some more work (but decided I'd had enough for today.) I'm damn tired, if you'll excuse me.

And I'm a little nervous. I have a confession to make.

I've signed up to do my Masters degree. And, in fact, I have my first lecture tomorrow.

All around the world, people who know me, and know how I struggle to find writing time, are slapping their foreheads and groaning.

Yes, yes, I KNOW. But the desire to do my masters predates my desire to write for publication, believe it or not. And this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Funding has become available that will have disappeared even next year. So I'm going to go for it. This is one of those, "I owe myself this," moments.

I'm not giving up writing. But as I said to Julie, "even if I only wrote on Saturday mornings, if I did it with focus, I'd be writing more than I am right now." In some masochistic way I wouldn't be surprised if I wrote more, actually. Perhaps writing romance will become my displacement activity for writing essays?

What I also owe myself is a good night's sleep - so you'll have to excuse me! I haven't forgotten your question, Olga, or yours, Dee, and I will come back and talk about the workshop.

Soon.

At least, sooner than six months.