It never rains, but it certainly pours. There I was, merrily getting on with my two new children’s books, Episode and Owen Goal, and thinking that despite recent events in my life getting in the way – counselling for unresolved past issues and work (yuk!) – I could get on with my writing. It’s been slow going because of those things, but I was managing to do some writing every day. Got two chapters of Episode done and am halfway through the second of Owen Goal. Even so, I was thinking of abandoning one for the other so I could finish in one year like I planned, though I’m not sure which one I’ll drop yet.
For a while, things were going well. I could crack on and move forward a few chapters; or so I thought.
For another cat has been set amongst the pigeons now, another can of worms opened, another thorn digging in my side, something else upsetting the applecart, a spanner in the works. Someone very dear and very close to me was recently diagnosed with that condition commonly known as (who fancies a game of Hangman? _ _ _ _ _ _). Consequently, my writing time has plummeted from writing a few words a day to writing nothing at all for nearly two weeks.
We’ve been told it’s been caught very early, but you still worry, don’t you?
For myself, never having anything suffered anything more sinister than epilepsy, it’s hard to imagine how your loved one is coping with such devastating news (his initial reaction was this: ‘Bollocks!’), but it’s affected me to the extent that I can think of only his welfare. My priorities have changed: my own personal problems, such as they were, are trivial in comparison and has put them into perspective. As I write this, we’re waiting to hear from the hospital about a date for surgery. We’ve both got over the initial shock, it’s still in the background, gnawing at us, and although we’ve both managed to carry on as normal (I have started to scribble a few lines a day again), when the day comes for him to go under the knife that same, horrible sick feeling of fear will come back. He’ll be all right, he’ll be counting backwards after being hit over the head with a hammer (that’s how it feels after you’ve come round, and I should know: I found out the anaesthetist was an Arsenal supporter, the git!) and merrily in the land of nod. He won’t know a thing. It’s me who’ll be pacing up and down, wishing it was me not him.
I fear Owen Goal and/or Episode will not be finished this year, but right now I don’t really care.