The bad news is that I’ve totally lost track of time today. The good news is that I think I’m about three or four chapters from completing the first draft of Aggie’s Art Of Happiness. I hope to have it done, I have to have it done, by midnight on New Year’s Eve. ANd then I can start the painful editing process, which will allow me to embroider, or cut, or lengthen. And then give the first edited draft to M who will no doubt find any number of weaknesses in it; and I will do this despite my agent telling me over 10 years ago that it’s entirely unfair of authors to involve their spouses in the process of creating books (but if Le Carré did it, then I reckon I can, too).
K went back to London today after spending the best part of a week here for Christmas. I always cry when any of the children go away after spending time with us. I can’t help myself, although I know they have to be independent creatures. And I do know I’m quite a difficult father to have around.
Lots of nice messages after yesterday’s post about my depression. It wasn’t until I had therapy that I realised that I was actually not alone. It bears repeating that I regret not having had therapy when I was in my late twenties, and that anyone who can should have a go at it. And it also bears repeating (and this endlessly) that the government doesn’t put enough funding into supporting people with mental health issues.
The sun has a lot to do with my feeling better today. The next three days are forecast to be dreadful again, but at least I’ll have Aggie to keep me occupied.
M goes back to work tomorrow. This has been an all too brief break for her, as well as that other job she does with such grace and strength – being our matriarch, the cornerstone of our lives, and the touchstone. And the only reward she gets is to read my first edited drafts. Scant reward indeed.
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