That moment when you’ve written a book, and you’re really quite proud of it. Its a touchy subject and definitely a weepy – you’re not even sure anyone will want to read it, but you’ve written it anyway and you’re going to publish it… and then like a horrible twist of irony, real life imitates art.
You’ve been through it once with ya father and then, just when everything is falling perfectly in to place… there’s that dreaded ‘I’ve found a lump.’
Thankfully, in the end its all ok, but for those few weeks it’s scary and silent as neither of you talk about it. Nobody wants to give it a voice. It’s not like this year hasn’t already brought with it enough crap to deal with, and you’ve already recognised its the same month that ya father died. So, its ignored enough that you just get through it – and ya do!
And all is good with the world once again – and you realise, you didn’t write the biggest jinx of your life! Now you can talk about it, its voice has no fear any longer and the sun shines on a winter’s day!
