Dear Sixty Year Old Me,
Saturday was that day of sliding down a long snake after a clear climb on a few recent ladders.
You felt low afterwards. Low and relieved. Relieved because I wasn’t chosen to read out. Two hours after emailing the intro to my submission to the novel writing workshop I could see holes in it, after all. Huge holes.
Leerdammer through a telescope holes.
Here, forty eight hours later, I dare say I’ll stand up for attempt 654 of trying to birth this goddamn story.
Say you’re laughing?
What am I on about with #52and40? Find out here.