The weekend has almost gone. The clock ticked past midnight some time ago. The clothes dryer is still running in the kitchen. The dishwasher finished a few minutes ago. The washing machine still needs emptying. It never ends.
Most of tomorrow will be spent in an on-line meeting. I need to remember to have a shave and put a shirt on in the morning. It’s an important meeting, full of important people. Best not turn up in a scruffy t-shirt, covered in stubble.
In-between getting chores done, I’ve been recording YouTube videos for much of the weekend. It’s a lot of work, but it makes pocket money I otherwise wouldn’t have. The channel broke through ten thousand subscribers last month – almost at eleven now. It feels a bit like a snowball gathering pace.
You know the strange thing? The whole YouTube thing was an accident. I never set out to become a “content creator”. I was just recording bits and pieces to share with a few friends.
In the background of all the things I’ve tinkered with over the last few years – the blog, podcasts, and now YouTube videos – there has been a constant whisper. To write a book. A novel.
Every sensible fibre of my being knows the chances of a novel getting published – let alone selling more than a handful of copies – is about on a par with a lightning strike. And yet the whisper remains.
Writing is romantic though, isn’t it. Romantic, eccentric, a calling… all the emotive words that conjure thoughts of sitting cross-legged on the floor with a typewriter and the clickety-clack of hammers echoing through the house.
I think perhaps I like the idea of writing a book more than act of actually doing it. I know in my heart of hearts that it will be really, really difficult. Arduous.
And yet… the whisper remains.
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