Round and round we go, always and ever round and round, never forward, just round and round and round.

Sometimes you’ve always been this place before, déjà vu, stutters in the timeline, a black cat crosses your path…

If each step taken is progress, then why am I only seeing my own footprints?

Not a religious analogy – but it could be.

Writing tall tales, howsoever, or wherever the writer commits to the craft is a solitary business.

The potential reward for so many hours of labour is fiscally miniscule.

To be read, to be enjoyed – these though are the riches beyond calculation, these are the wishes asked of the genie.

My work is polished, the silk purse near complete.

Fear grips my chest, breath is denied.

Will they hate it, will they be indifferent, or indeed will they like it?

What if it indeed does have worth?

What then all the back clinging monkeys and self-doubt?

The day of judgement is coming.

The imposter is sweating.

Self-publishing is ever closer.

Amy Grace and her tall tale will soon be freed.

Keep the faith.

Stay safe – remain sane!