This weekend I was in London and met up with a friend who I went to college with far too many years ago to remember. We had lunch and swapped tales of children, life and work. It was a lovely lunch and so good to catch up. During our time together I mentioned that I had written a manuscript although it wasn't yet finished and I wasn't sure it ever would be. It was a throw away comment, not expecting any particular reaction, merely a statement of fact. That's something I had done since we last met so I threw it into the conversation.
I was stunned by her reaction. She was so excited and enthusiastic about my achievement, wanting to know more, asking questions about how I planned to publish and so on. She also told me how proud she was of me. All the air vanished from me and I sat back. Someone was proud of me. Someone who is not family. Someone cared enough to tell me that.
After we went our separate ways I had some time to kill so I went for a coffee and thought about what she had said. And it occurred to me that I had never felt proud of myself. Is that even something that people do? But I had done something pretty amazing, I have written a manuscript which with a bit of work could be a fully fledged book. So I sat back and dwelt on that and the lovely warm fuzzy feeling it gave me.
Then something rather wonderful happened. I felt energised to carry on writing, to try my best to make something of the manuscript I had fallen out of love with and send it off into the world in whichever format I decided suited it.
And there it was. Oxygen for my writing process. A blast of the good stuff that is spurring me on, keeping me going, firing me up. I hope it lasts.
