I’ve decided to write a novel. I’ve jotted down a basic outline in a scruffy notepad while watching breakfast TV.
I’ve always secretly wanted to write a novel, and I’ve even dreamt about it at times. But whenever I woke, and the dream faded, I would be left with a slightly shameful feeling; a feeling of overreach, a feeling of literary hubris, a feeling of vulnerability and exposure. It didn’t feel good and the novel remained ill-conceived and unwritten.
But things change and people change. I’m a shade over fifty now, and I care less about what other people think. I might not care at all. Also, I was recently diagnosed with ADHD, and prescribed Ritalin, which has cleansed the mind, and removed the perpetual feeling of frustration that has been lurking in the corners of my psyche for five decades.
So I care less, my mind has been rebooted, and I’m significantly less frustrated with the world.
I shall write.
Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash
