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It’s been one of those years, and indeed it hasn’t. 

We are doomed to be living in interesting times, norms are fluid, and yet they aren’t. 

Plans, mice, men…

We have scribbled, yet we are still where we started.

‘Prison’ isn’t finished, and ‘The Big House’ is still a pile of research books/notes, and I’m no closer to that mythical status of being a ‘published author’.

The first two points are well within my control, the latter I’m not too sure.

I could KDP, it would pop that pimple, but somehow, it’s not what I want.

I don’t know if I’m seeking some validation from an industry that can never provide that all soothing affirmation – and it is highly possible (probable) that I am procrastinating in some deliberate defence mechanism to avoid embarrassing disappointment – that and I’m most definitely overthinking everything.

Fortune indeed favours the brave.

Fall seven, stand eight – gotta be in it to win it etc.

I know, and I read, and take heart from those who have struggled for years to achieve the recognition that their work so deserves – perseverance is indeed prevalent.

Yet a continuing theme, the writing running through every bite of rock of my being is that corrosive monkey of self-doubt.

This isn’t a negative Treatise on the whole mechanics of the publishing world, it is just a snapshot in time of my inner musings.

I look forward to 2021 with enthusiasm and vigour –   and I wish to myself, and to others, success in their endeavours and peace in their lives.   

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