That’s me, with the Matterhorn in the background
After two weeks in the Alps, snow at 2000 metres (not normal for the time of year) and as much Alpinism as my injury (yes the bruise is still there) could handle, I have something to confess:
I hardly thought about writing.
It was probably the first long car journey when I haven’t passed the time by writing in my head, and the first holiday I didn’t get any ideas, not even for a short story.
I feel vaguely guilty, and a bit elated - like a weight has been lifted.
In the past I’ve always known I couldn’t survive without writing, but after that holiday I could see a future without it - and guess what, it wasn’t that bad.
Does this mean I’m losing my writing vocation - or just needed a total break after a year in which much of my life was put on hold?
And shouldn’t writing be something I enjoy, not a duty?
